


The Payback

by Berseker



Series: The Payback [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Groping, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26253859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berseker/pseuds/Berseker
Summary: It's 1826. In the middle of the Cisplatine War, Argentinean captain Martín Hernandez is captured by Luciano da Silva, a former acquaintance with a score to settle
Relationships: Argentina/Brazil (Hetalia)
Series: The Payback [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988794
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: If you saw this fic on LJ, you know there's a lot of credit to Sakuratsukikage. That's because she helped me so much with encouragement, brainstorming, ship and sea info and tricky English sentence. She's not in the LH fandom anymore, but you can find her old LJ with some LH fics and I suggest you do, because she's amazing and they're all lovely.
> 
> This fic was inspired by a pirate AU fanart that got lost in the sands of time, unless Zulenha saved a copy somewhere. Zu also betaread the first version, but I edited it after that, so I probably included a bunch of mistakes over her lovely work.
> 
> And, as always, thank you to everyone who has read this. Love you all <3

They twisted his arms behind his back.

Not too hard. It was almost kind, the way they didn’t break his bones. Just made sure he wouldn’t move, and didn’t force him to run either, didn't drag him down the deck, didn’t do anything that would actually hurt him. All in all, the whole thing was almost respectful.

Martín Hernandez wasn't fooled. He knew they had something in store, and maybe making him wonder, making him wait, was part of their plan.

He kept his head held high. That was the easy part, straight back, haughty eyes, everything he had been practicing since he was a child, so much that now it came naturally. It wasn't much, not as these people held him, not when he could sense the silent threat, but it would have to be enough. 

They pushed his back against the mast, then forced his arms around it. His wrists were tied tightly, but without cruelty, not nearly tight enough to cut off the circulation. Nothing he couldn’t take. Yet. You don’t tie an enemy captain to your mast if you don’t plan _something_. No one offered any explanation, didn’t even address him much. Just a few Portuguese words here and there. One of them tugged at the ropes, checking the knots, and then they left him alone.

And that was it.

Martín took a deep breath, as silently as he could, then rested his head against the wood. 

He was shaking. Had they noticed? No, impossible, he was sure they hadn't. And even if they had, he couldn’t be the only one. The battle still raged in his mind, the gunshots and cannon fire and the screaming and the smoke that seemed to have a sound of his own. All the sudden choices, the decisions, and at least he had that, whatever happened now, he knew he had done right by his men, had lived up to his own name. He didn’t know how many had died, but no one else had been captured, he had bought them time enough to get away, so. Even if he died now, Martín could be proud of himself. He had earned it.

He drew strength from that. Tried to, anyway. Pride wouldn’t save his life, but it was all he had. 

He sighed again. It was just a bit too loud, but no one was paying attention, no one was even looking at him. Normal life carried on, people running from side to side on the deck checking the damage, and that was something he could be proud of too. At least he had made an impact. 

His arms were starting to hurt.

It was getting warmer, too. It wasn't even noon yet, but the sun was high up and he could tell that it would be a problem later, if they kept him here, but there was no point in dwelling on it now. That was the trick, so he wouldn't panic. Yes.

Deep breaths.

He wished he could move. He closed his fingers, but it didn't help much, and it took some effort, too. His hands felt a bit cold, now. So the ropes were tighter than he had though.

Nice.

But they hadn’t tied the rope around him, so maybe he could slide down and sit on the floor. Not that he would, not in front of them. He could take this standing.

Deep, deep breaths.

Martín hated to be restrained. Well, everyone did, probably, who would enjoy this? But he truly, truly _hated_ it. He was wondering if there was any way to easy the strain on his shoulders when one of the men came to him.

He was tall, with a face that looked like old leather, and he didn't look too friendly. Martín tried to look blank, not afraid but not challenging either, just- nothing. He could take it. He _could_.

The man said something in Portuguese, leaning so close that Martín could feel his breath. The only word he got out of all he said was _captain_ , and he didn’t know if leather-face was talking about him, or the captain of this ship. Why was he so close? Should he try to reply? His Portuguese wasn’t good enough to hold a conversation, would he sound provocative? Did he want to?  
His lip stung, and he realized he had been biting it. Great, he’d been trying to train himself out of it for the better part of his life, this was the perfect moment to find out it hadn't worked. Amazing timing. Why was this man so fucking _close_?  
Leather-face glared at him for a second, and then grinned. And patted his cheek. Before Martín could react, he went away, back to his business, and Martín found himself biting his lip again. That had been on purpose, hadn’t it? Leather-face wanted to scare him, and had succeeded, and he knew it and Martín hated himself for it.  
And anyway what the fuck he had said? Why give him news or advice or whatever that was in a language he couldn't understand? What was wrong with these people?

And what about the Captain? Martín could wait. He almost told them that, he could wait the whole day, no need to hurry, he wasn't going anywhere and they could-

And then he saw him.

The dread was like- like an empty space at the bottom of the stomach, like coming back home to find himself in the middle of a war, like watching the blockade from Buenos Aires wondering if the Imperial Navy would be breaking in by nightfall and like every bad news he had ever received, so he stared and at some distant part of his mind he knew he had to face him standing, had to look like he always had, strong, and proud and-

Luciano.

Luciano da Silva, here, calm and focused and many other things Martín could suddenly tell without even trying, from the tilt of his head and the tension in his shoulders. Luciano worried and frustrated, pointing at the sails and asking questions and giving orders and he had never looked so sure of himself before, so commanding, and for a second there they were back in Paris and Martín was fighting a smile and Luciano was mangling every French word that came out of his mouth, and he looked so charming and he was obviously trying so hard and now-

Now Luciano turned to him and all Martín could do was stare. The grip of the ropes brought him back and reality came crashing down and oh God why this why him why-

Luciano smiled. His eyes had never been more guarded:

“I'm sure you can wait another minute,” he said in a nearly perfect Spanish, and added something in Portuguese that made his crew laugh. Martín swallowed hard.

I'm not going anywhere, he thought, but his voice faltered, and he couldn't say it. Luciano was almost the same, only older, but- so very much the same, the warm brown skin, the black hair now hidden by one of the plainest tricornes Martín had ever seen, the strength, the cheerful energy he always had, and God, why in the world did it have to be him? He should have seen it coming. Somehow. It was just his luck. It was-

Right, it didn't matter. They knew each other, that was all, it didn’t matter, it didn’t have to be personal. And it was nice of Luciano to take his time to come over, even if he meant it as a way to make him sweat, because that gave Martín the time to get a hold of himself. Somehow. Luciano seemed to be completed distracted, talking with the tall man from before, and now Martín wished he had bothered to learn Portuguese to understand what they were saying. Luciano had tried to teach him once, oh the irony, and now he wished-

He wished he could forget that. He thought he had.

He tried to follow Luciano with his eyes, but the bastard was walking around, and then he was right against the sun and Martín had to look away. That was unsettling. Not knowing where he was. And what he would do. And what in the name of all hell he was doing _here_ and-

“Now, I don't have much time,” Luciano said.

Martín raised his head sharply, trying to look at him, but Luciano was right behind him, and Martín felt his hands on his arms, the light tug on the ropes. More Portuguese, then more laughter, and he thought he was complimenting them on the knots, but he couldn't be sure. He remembered that, this... changing the subject in the middle of a sentence, talking to someone else, talking to ten people at the same time. He was always doing that, back then. Martín rested his head against the mast, and sighed.

“You didn't change.”

“Really” Luciano said. He held his arms, and Martín hoped his gasp had gone unnoticed, and braced himself, but Luciano didn't pull or squeezed or anything, he just touched his forearms, fingers lightly pressing his muscles, and then let his hands slide down until he could touch his wrists. And added, “Does it hurt?”

He was crazy. That, or he was trying to drive him crazy.

“No, I'm fine,” Martín said.

“Are you?”

“Yes, Luciano, I'm fine, now can you-”

“Heeey, you remember my name. That's so nice of you.”

Martín stopped.

He wasn't sure what to make of that. Luciano finally – finally!- stood in front of him, smiling as if Martín remembering him was a sweet surprise and Martín tried to guess what game he thought he was playing, because-

“So,” Luciano said, “A pirate, huh? Who knew.”

Martín didn't answer. He wanted to, because honestly, look who's talking, and he wasn't, he was fighting for his nation just as much as Luciano, maybe even more, but Luciano had that special way of saying things that made Martín’s skin crawl and he was doing it on purpose, and Martín wasn't going to fall for this, wasn't going to-

“May I ask why? You were always too coward to fight for yourself, so why are you-”

“Coward? Are you calling me a-”

“A coward, yes, I am. Don’t waste my time defending your actions. I don’t care. You really think I didn't change?”

It was strange and yet so familiar, the way his voice could change and one word would sound honest and eager, and the other so unexpectedly harsh. The way his smile was both fixed and natural at the same time. Had he always been like that? 

“You didn't,” Martín said, even though he wasn’t sure anymore. “But I admit I'm surprised. I never expected you to follow an honest career, but this?”

Luciano laughed. Martín knew it was real, he remembered that. Luciano could force a smile, but he couldn't force laughter. He laughed at the wrong times, and sometimes it had that glint of steel underneath the mirth, but it was never fake. Martín watched as he said something in Portuguese to his crew, who seemed vaguely interested in the exchange, and they laughed too. He didn't care about them, or what they thought of him, or anything this bunch of barely trained monkeys did, but he could still feel his cheeks burning.

Luciano was shaking his head, still smiling:

“I see you didn't change, either.”

He patted his cheek, and smiled wider when Martín tried to avoid his touch.

“Now, like I said, I have work to do. _Someone_ was attacking us, you know, so we have shit to fix before we can get the hell out of here. We'll talk more later. Catch up. You know.”

“You- you'll leave me here? Like this?”

“That's the plan, yes. This way you won't get in our way, and we can all look at something pretty as we work. You'd like that, don't you?”

He wasn't even looking at him anymore, and Martín was suddenly aware of the heat, the little rivulets of sweat running down his back, and he couldn't take off his coat or the cravat and it wasn't even noon yet, and-

“You can't do that.”

“Really? How will you stop me?”

He could take this. He could handle it. He'd just have to- focus, and he would- he wasn't going to-

“You're such a bastard, Luciano.”

“Am I?”

Martín tried to breathe. Deep. Don't panic. He hated being restrained. He didn't- _don't_ go there. He breathed again.

“I'll make you pay for this, Luciano, you can't-”

“Really? Should I just kill you then?”

Martín could recognize that one too, the subtle harshness underlying every word, he had seen this, back when Luciano could rage all he wanted that it would still be as harmless as a kitten, back _then_ , but right now he couldn't bring himself to care:

“You can leave me somewhere, I'll find a way to- any shore will do, I can-”

“Come on. And here I thought it would take at least ten minutes to get you whining.”

“I know why you're doing this, I- do they know? Do they know what's this all about? Because we both do and-”

“Martín, shut up.”

At least he dropped the smile. Martín pulled at the ropes, and they held and he had nothing else but pride to hold on to, to get him through this and Luciano was looking at him like that, little drops of sweat glistening on his skin and Martín wanted to move, he didn't even need a shade, just move, Luciano couldn't do this and-

“What if I don’t? Want to kill me before I can say anything? Do they know you don't give a fuck about the war and this is all about how I didn't fuck you like you -”

The slap took him completely by surprise.

It threw his head against the mast and the hot white burning pain exploded on his right cheek and down his neck and it made lights flash before his eyes. Luciano grabbed his chin and forced his head back and then he said:

“Don't say that again or I'll break your neck. And before that I’ll cut off your clothes and leave you naked here and then we'll see how much they care.  
Got it?”  
“You wouldn't,” he whispered. Luciano held him just a little tighter, and Martín tried to fight back a moan. He was a stranger now, harsh voice and harsher eyes.

“Don’t try me,” Luciano said, and let go.

He said something to his men, and Martín had never wished so hard he could understand Portuguese, but he wouldn't, he was sure of it, this was still Luciano, he’d never, he just fucking _wouldn't_.

He didn't know where to look now, if he should see where Luciano was going or keep his eyes on the crew. It was like being in the middle of a battle without any weapon. Someone from the crew came to him – not the one from before, this one was younger, and had a playfully dark smile and he stared at him like he would look at a piece of meat – and patted his cheek. Martín didn't say anything – his throat was completely dry and he would scream, he knew it, but he couldn't, he still had his pride, so he turned his head away and then braced himself for anything. 

The man laughed, a loud, merry boisterous mocking sound, that was – almost- just as bad. Then he went back to their business and Martín became invisible again.

But not completely. Luciano’s words – or the slap, or the touch – had changed the rules. The crew looked at him now, and sometimes added touches to the looks. Nothing that would hurt, just enough to make him squirm. Patting and petting and pinching. Martín tried to glare and tell them off, but his voice trembled, and they just laughed and mimicked his accent. If they could understand the words, they were hiding it well.

They weren't- Luciano wasn't going to let them. They were just toying with him. It was obvious. He was a novelty and they’d get tired soon. Eventually. He hoped. No, he knew it, was sure of it, so he tried to be silent and stoic, to make his face as blank as he could, and ignore all the hands feeling him up and think of something else.

After a few seconds the only thing he could think of was the sun.


	2. Chapter 2

They weren’t moving.

It was too hot, and the ship wasn’t moving, and Martín could take either one of those, but not both at the same time. 

Everything was glittering, from the sky above him to the wood planks under his feet, and what he could see of the water beyond the ship. The whole world had a light of its own, and he tried to close his eyes against it, but couldn't keep them like this because not knowing if there was someone nearby was intolerable. And the light wasn’t the problem, even if it was burning his eyes, no, the problem was that it was getting really fucking hot.

And they weren't moving.

He still had his coat on, and couldn't take it off with his hand tied up. Couldn't walk around to feel the breeze, couldn't even raise his hand to clean off the sweat of his brown, so Martín went back to deep breaths, counting the seconds before exhaling, because it was all piling up and there was sweat running down his back and that damn coat was so hot and _why_ the _fuck_ weren't they moving?

They were doing this on purpose. Luciano was a bastard, that's what he was, and-

“Enjoying yourself?”

Martín blinked. He hadn't seen him coming.

“Of course. How long are we staying here?”

Luciano didn't answer. And he didn't press for an answer either, he went to his men and started to discuss something with them, and Martín knew why they were still here, of course, but _he_ would have done this faster and Luciano was trying something, he knew it, and-

“Almost done,” Luciano said cheerfully, turning back to him. “Can you spare me a few minutes of your time? I need to talk to you.”

Martín almost asked him to repeat the question. Just. What.

“No, I don't think I do,” he said, because if Luciano wanted to be stupid, he wouldn't- he wouldn't try to make him stop, that's what.

“Good, thank you. I'm sorry I hit you.”

He wasn't expecting that. His cheek was still burning from it and the humiliation, and the – not fear, but, well, alarm, and he could bet there would be a mark, and-

He really wasn't expecting that.

Luciano waited for his answer. When none came, he shrugged, looking almost embarrassed:

“You had it coming, but if I do that every time you deserve I’ll end up breaking your neck, that part was true, by the way, so be grateful that I didn't. But hitting you will just hurt my hand and won’t even teach you anything, because you’re… well, you. And I should have better self-control.”

Martín could recognize a real apology when he saw one, and this surely wasn't. So he just glared.

Luciano gave him a few more seconds, and smiled.

He was always smiling. Martín remembered that. There was something about the way his lips curved, the way his eyes danced with light, and- he had wondered, back then, how Luciano would act on a different setting, without all the refinement and sophistication that Paris imposed on both. Turned out that he was exactly the same thing.

Well.

Back then he didn't tie people under the burning sun. There was that.

Luciano was very close, now.

“Are you ignoring me?”

Martín didn't answer. Luciano sighed.

Then he held his chin. Martín tried to resist him, but Luciano held it tighter, turning his face to see his cheek, giving him no choice, even if being held like this hurt his dignity, as Luciano should know, by the way, and he probably did, so Martín said:

“Happy? Can you let me go?”

Luciano just raised his chin, and now Martín had the full glare of the sun right on his face, and was forced to close his eyes.

“Look at that,” Luciano said, softly, “It's like your whole face is shining.”

“Luciano-”

“You're all golden. The hair and the eyebrows and your eyelashes,” he raised his face a little higher. That was uncomfortable, because of the mast pressing against his skull and because even with his eyes closed he could tell exactly where the sun was, and the brightness was making his head hurt, and then Luciano caressed his jaw line with his thumb, slowly. Such a bold touch, for someone who had only dared to kiss him once.

“It's a nice effect,” Luciano said, suddenly letting go, “Of course, it won't help you with the sun, but it's still beautiful. Anyway.”

And just like that, he pushed his hands inside Martín's coat, pressing against his chest.

“What are you doing?” Martín tried to squirm away, but he could barely move, “What the fuck do you think you're-”

“I need to see if you don't have weapons with you, don't I? Now be quiet, it won't take long.”

“No- your men did that already, and you know I don't-”

“I don't know anything. What if they missed something? I can't take the risk.”

“You just want to want to-”

“Be careful,” Luciano said, his smile sharpening, “Be very careful, Martín.”

“-touch me,” Martín finished, but now it was just a furious whisper that no one heard, and it wasn't even the word he wanted to have used, and Luciano let it slide:

“You’d think that, yes.”

Martín considered kicking him. He could do it. Probably wouldn't live to enjoy the reaction, but he _could_ do it. If he wanted to. He tried to imagine Luciano's surprise if he did it, and-

“Are you sure you're comfortable?” the bastard said, “Because you're sweating like a pig.”

-and he deserved it. Martín turned away. He shouldn't let it bother him, because that was obviously why Luciano had said it, and also because it wasn't his fault, there was no wind, nothing at all, and the sun was high and what was he supposed to do?

And now Luciano was pressing him harder than he had to. Now his hands were down his waist and Martín wanted to remind him that Luciano wasn't the one tied to a fucking mast here, so could he please be a little more careful with that?

“You can take it,” Luciano said, as if he had heard his thoughts, “You were always very flexible.”

“Not that you’d know that,” Martín mumbled.

“I can tell. I was afraid they would break your arms, but there you are, good as ever.”

That wasn't what he had meant, but Luciano had a point. Of course, Luciano would break his arms himself, pulling him like that, and right now it was almost like he was trying to hug him, so close that Martín could bite his neck.

And then he let go of his waist, and slid his hands down his hips.

Some of his men were looking – instead of working so they could move already and get some wind and go somewhere – and someone said something, and then Luciano turned to them and answered and they laughed.

Martín was sure he was blushing. They wouldn't be able to tell, because the sun had made his skin as red as it could be, but he knew it, and now he didn't know where to look at and couldn't bring himself to face them.

And then he could. The furious energy came from nowhere, but he wouldn't shame himself, he glared at everyone as hard as he could as Luciano went down on one knew to feel up his legs. His face got warmer and warmer and he suddenly noticed he was biting his lip when Luciano reached his thighs and looked up, a mischievous smile on his lips:

“Can you spread for me, my friend?”

The snickering proved that yes, at least some of them could understand Spanish, and it made Martín blush harder, and now he didn't know what to do, he couldn't, he just couldn't do that but if he didn't-

Luciano was taking it slowly. He pressed his hand between Martín's legs, and it felt more like he was massaging his thighs than searching for any weapon, - that wasn't completely bad, of course, and Martín couldn't decide if Luciano was doing it on purpose –of course he was, but why, he couldn't figure out if he wanted to humiliate him and –he _did_ , but-

Luciano did the same to his other leg. Martín tried to think of something else, even the sun was better, because Luciano was way too close to his crotch and Martín's head was full of dumb ideas, like how beautiful Luciano's mouth was and how his lush lips would look good around his-

“Aren't you glad you don't like this?” Luciano said, snapping Martín out of it, “Otherwise it would be really awkward.”

No one had heard it. Martín was sure of it, because Luciano's voice was almost a whisper and he wouldn't have said that to everyone and even if he had they wouldn't understand because they didn't know, but now Martín could taste blood from biting his lip too hard. He took a deep breath again, but everything felt so warm, the air and the clothes and everything inside him, and breathing was almost impossible.

“Left foot, please.”

Martín looked down. Luciano was holding his ankle, and Martín was too overwhelmed to protest, or to do anything except letting him raise his leg, placing Martín's foot on his knee, and then watch as Luciano worked on the buckles of his boot and pulled it off. He did the same with the right one, and got up.

The wooden floor felt wrong, strange under his feet. Luciano seemed taller, not enough to reach him, but close, and it felt like he had gained some sort of unfair advantage.

“Oh well, nothing there,” he said, loudly, and then translated that to a much more malicious version, judging by the laughter. They had to be doing that on purpose. How could this bunch of clowns laugh so much?

“Aren't you forgetting anything?” Martín said. It didn't sound strong or impressive or anything, it sounded like... well, like someone trying hard to sound strong. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What now, are you stealing my boots too?”

“Ask me to put them on, and I will.”

Oh.

Technically, it didn't matter much. Unless the floor had splinters, he had bigger problems to worry about. And maybe it would be better because a few minutes ago he was wishing he could get rid of the coat and the cravat too, but still, standing barefoot before him – except for the stockings, but that didn't count – somehow felt almost more humiliating than anything else.

Almost.

“Take them with you,” he said, “'About time you had a decent pair.”

Luciano's smile vanished. For a second Martín thought he would hit him again, but then the smile was back in full force:

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

He picked up the boots, and Martín half expected him to throw it at the sea, but Luciano was too clever for that. He just took them with him.

And forgot about him again. Now he couldn't focus on anything but the planks underneath his feet and the lingering pressure of Luciano's hands between his legs and the light sting on his lip and the faint taste of blood and the heat, always the heat, like a blanket all around him.

He closed his eyes. He could hear Luciano's voice somewhere close, giving orders again, and how come he could find his voice in the middle of so many others?

It had been like that. Martín used to say it had something to do with the terrible accent he couldn't get rid of, but that was because he had to say something, and it was an easy excuse – and a surefire way to make Luciano shut up, because he hated when people mentioned it. The truth was that Martín didn't know why it happened. It just did.

He could always find him.

It had been hard, back then, because he hadn't wanted to. Luciano wasn't- well, wasn't someone he wanted to associate with. Everyone knew it, even if they didn't say it. To his face, anyway.

Now Martín wished he had. But back then Luciano hadn't tied him to a mast yet, so back then there was a point in trying not to hurt his feelings, and Martín had ended up associating with him anyway, a little against his will and certainly against his better judgment.

His legs were tired.

And now he had noticed it, he couldn’t ignore it. He wished he could sit – and he _could_ , he had just enough leeway to do that, but that would mean admitting he couldn't stand. They would notice it. And laugh. Luciano would look at him and know and smile and he couldn't take that.

Luciano always seemed to be laughing. Ever since the first day. Martín had told him to stop, many times, because it felt like mockery. He had always replied that it was.

Someone poked his chest. Martín opened his eyes, half expecting to see those bright dark eyes, but it was someone else. Some man from the crew, who pressed a canteen against his lips.

Martín tried to turn his face away, but then he heard Luciano’s voice again: 

“Drink it. I know you're thirsty.”

“I'm not-”

“Drink or he'll make you drink.”

Martín scowled.

“Look, that's sweet of you, but don't worry about me, I'm fine.”

Luciano went back to Portuguese. The man said something back, and it looked like he was complaining, probably resisting sharing whatever that was. But Luciano just laughed and looked away and the man shrugged.

He put his hand between Martín's head and the mast, holding his hair, and pressed the canteen against his lips a little more forcefully and Martín decided to be wise. 

It was water mixed with rum, and it was so good, like having his body being cooled from the inside and he could have drank like that forever, and it almost didn't matter that it felt like being fed like a baby.

The man pulled the canteen away, and let go of his hair. And waited. Martín wasn't sure what for, and then Luciano looked at him again, from the other side of the ship:

“Say thank you.”

Martín pressed his lip for a moment, and then decided that the only way out of this was through it:

“Of course, where are my manners? _Thank_ you.”

The man patted his head, and Martín tried to ignore it. There, it was over and he didn't have to think about it ever again. He could almost feel Luciano's eyes on him, and he looked up to face him.

Luciano looked- well, maybe a little impressed.

Martín looked away. But that made him feel just a tiny bit better.


	3. Chapter 3

Martín’s relief didn’t last long.

Neither did the small comfort of the water they had given him. Soon he was thirsty again, sweating under the full glare of the sun. Being so covered was its own special torture, even if a part of him was almost grateful for the coat. Every bit of unprotected skin was starting to burn. Not enough to hurt, not yet, but Martín knew that was only a matter of time. 

And he was really fucking uncomfortable. His legs hurt, so did his arms, and his shoulders had been complaining for the past hour. 

He tried not to think about it. To convince his own body that this was an exercise, a test of endurance, that he had somehow decided that this was the perfect position to be in. The coat was an illusion caused by the heat, and so was the still air without a hint of wind. He had to. Martín couldn’t let himself realize that his hands were bound and would remain like that for as long as Luciano wanted to keep him, or he would– he’d go insane, that’s what, he’d humiliate himself by screaming or struggling until his wrists were bleeding enough to soften the knots, because he couldn't _handle_ this, it was too much and it had taken far too long and it was just too hot and-

No.

This wasn’t happening. Not the breakdown, and not this whole thing either. That was the perfect solution. The sun wouldn't have bothered him if he were back at his ship and it would have been just as hot, and he certainly would be still wearing his clothes, only not so many, and he could find a shade sometimes and he wouldn't have to stand here and sweat and _why_ weren't they _moving_ -

God.

Martín made himself breathe slowly. Again. He did his best to ignore the sweat running down his face and on his back and, when it became impossible, pressed against the mast to make his clothes absorb it. It wouldn't help, but at least it worked as a distraction, while he thought about banging Luciano's head against the floor until he bled. Maybe it wouldn’t even show against that black hair of his, maybe it would just look dirty. Why hadn’t that bastard taken his coat too when he was stealing his boots? That had just been cruel. He could at least–

“We're leaving,” he said, and Martín snapped his eyes open. 

Luciano was standing right in front of him. He was smiling again, dark eyes glittering. Of course, _he_ got to wear something against the sun – something that wasn't a stupid heavy coat, that is – and he looked so... so not like someone who was enjoying this sick joke should look. 

Maybe Martín was going crazy. Maybe Luciano had the right to smile like that, and look pleased like that, maybe there was nothing strange about the way he touched his chin, raising his face. And squeezed it playfully, grinning, before walking away. 

He was definitely going crazy.

It took some effort, but Martín managed to keep his eyes open, and called him the next time the asshole passed by.

“How long are you planning to keep me here? This has gone on long enough.”

Luciano considered the question. It didn’t even look forced, he seemed to be counting something and, for a moment, Martín struggled to remember where he was. Luciano had always done that, lips moving slightly every time he had to focus. Thinking out loud without any sound, he used to say. A silly turn of phrase that always made Martín smile a bit condescendingly, thinking it was an attempt to hide inadequacy behind a joke. 

Which was, of course, entirely true. Luciano couldn’t read without saying the words, not in French, not in English, not even in Portuguese. He did his best to hide it, but that hadn’t lasted long, had it? Pretty soon it wasn’t a secret anymore.

Martín was about to _remind_ him, when Luciano finished his calculations and looked up at him again. 

“Seven days, I think. We might stop at Montevideo and leave you there, and then it would be less, but I’m not sure yet. I might take you to Rio, and that would take longer, so... assume it will be a week, and then you won’t be disappointed.”

Martín stared.

Luciano grinned.

“What, you thought I’d stop at Buenos Aires? I’m not suicidal.”

“No. No, you can't do this to me. There are- there are places where you can drop me off, anywhere along the coastline is fine, I can-”

“Why would I do that? You're my prisoner.”

That couldn't be right. It couldn't.

“Luciano. Listen. I'm not… just listen, you're not- you _can't_ -”

He stopped again, trying to form a coherent sentence while Luciano waited, with a good-natured smile on his lips. God, just like back in school, when Martín was having trouble with something and he could get his revenge and gloat, and for a second they were surrounded by the gardens and the gray-blue skies of the Élysées, but no, _no_ , he was here, he was tied to a fucking mast and he couldn’t say anything, because the only thing left to do now was begging and Martín would never do that.

Not to him.

“Just get me to the mainland,” he said. “It doesn't matter where. You’ll be far away before I reach any city, and even if you’re not, there’s nothing important I could tell anyone, you don’t need to keep me here -”

“I can’t do that,” he said, patiently, “Even if I wanted to. We’re miles away from anywhere. You’ll get yourself killed trying to reach civilization, and I can't let that happen, you’re too pretty to die. Or would be, if you didn't look like a lobster. At least your eyes are still lovely. Anyway, I have work to do.”

“Luciano!”

“I'll let you know if I change my mind.”

Martín shut his eyes. He didn't think about it. He couldn't, it would drive him crazy. He wouldn’t think at all, about anything, he was somewhere else or at no place at all, and maybe he could beg just this once, maybe it would work, maybe that's what Luciano wanted. Just one time.

No. Pride was all he had. Pride and strength. He was strong, he knew it. So he didn't beg. He didn't say anything. And eventually the ship started moving; he could feel the wind. Martín forced himself to open his eyes again, and all he could see was the deck and the men and the sea, and the sun. And everything seemed to sparkle, he had the feeling that his eyelashes were shining too, and he really wished Luciano hadn't said that about his eyes.

Luciano had always liked them. And what he said about lobsters, yes, that too, he enjoyed saying things and doing things that would make Martín blush and it wasn't even hard, because it happened all the time. It didn’t mean anything, he’d get red-faced from running down the street, that was just his skin and Luciano laughed every time he tried to explain it. And sometimes touched his face with the tip of his fingers, which was such a daring thing to do, and tell him how warm it was.

And every time he was away it was so, so easy to decide that next time Martín wouldn’t let him. He’d pull away, or hold his hand, or kill him and throw the body in the Seine. And then Luciano would do something weird like touching his hair or his face, or something innocent like resting his arm around Martín's shoulder, and pushing him away wouldn't even cross his mind, no matter how embarrassed he was. Over and over and over…

He shouldn't have let it happen. 

He remembered saying that, too. Loudly. And people listened and thought he meant it. And then- Luciano's eyes, round and dark and hurt. 

Martín had always thought his eyes were so expressive. He didn't know why Luciano loved light-colored eyes so much because his were so beautiful… but no, wait. That was wrong. That came before. That thought, that feeling, had come way, way before, when Luciano was called to the front of the class for the first time. The beautiful new student with his lovely brown eyes, smiling at everyone and speaking slowly so people would understand his heavily accented French.

Someone pressed something against his lips. Martín opened his eyes, startled, shaken out of his dream. It took him a while to understand what was going on. How much time had passed? Hours? Ten minutes? It hadn’t been a whole day yet, had it?

Someone was giving him that mix of water and alcohol. A tall man with leathery face and no patience, holding the bottle to his lips and forcing him to drink it faster, making him struggle to swallow. 

When he finished, the man waited. Martín could feel his stomach twisting, the knots of anger and shame, but he spat out the words:

“Thank you.”

“No,” the man said. “Say _gracias_. Your language.”

“Gracias, then. Happy?”

The humiliation was burning through his veins, and he didn't even know why. There wasn’t any special meaning to the words, he could pick up a few Spanish words from the crew now and then. And he had been speaking it with Luciano from the start. And yet it felt like cheap provocation, like they were fucking with him. Coming up with orders just to make him follow them, and Martín wanted to start this battle all over again. Sink this ship and everyone in it. 

The man patted his cheeks before leaving. Maybe Luciano had told them to do that. Or allowed it, anyway. Martín didn’t say anything. Didn’t threaten them, because it would be empty and ridiculous, didn't try to glare them away because it wouldn't work. He just ignored them.

Tried to, anyway. 

Because the crew wouldn’t stop touching him. 

It was all so casual. Little touches here and there when they passed by, without even looking at him. A light pat on his face, a hand on his shoulder, the way someone could rest their hands on a desk or the back of a chair.

But it wasn’t that. He knew it. They knew it. It couldn’t be, not when someone pinched his waist, not when someone squeezed his backside and chuckled lightly when he shuddered. They had fixed up all that could be fixed, and were going somewhere – Martín refused to believe it was Montevideo, it had to be some place closer - and they were bored, and he was the only source of entertainment. 

To add insult to injury, all that water was having an effect. The pressure on his bladder got harder and harder to ignore it.

Martín hadn’t seen this coming. He had thought about the heat and how tired his legs were and how much his shoulders were hurting, but he hadn't thought of that, and now he couldn't think about anything else. They wouldn't keep him here for days. He was sure of it. Luciano just wanted to teach him a lesson, get revenge, something, but he wouldn't go that far.

So next time someone tried to give him water, he refused it.

The man considered him for a moment.

Then grabbed his chin and leaned closer than he had any right to be, and Martín felt drops of blood in his hands, spilling from his wrists. He hadn’t even noticed his own struggle against the ropes.

The man took another step. He let go of his face, finally, but then slid his hands down his waist, resting them on his hips. He was pressing against his chest now, pushing him against the mast, Martín could smell his sweat and feel the warmth of his body and he did it without thinking, because they hadn’t tied his legs and he couldn’t stand this, his knee went up hard and fast and then the man folded in half, stumbling backwards. 

Laughter, then. Noise all around him. Martín shut his eyes and braced himself. 

The punch caught him right in his stomach, and knocked the air out of his lungs. His legs went weak, but the ropes held him standing and someone held his chin, and Martín struggled to breathe as they slammed him back against the mast. He forced his eyes open, as one of them held his neck and someone else grabbed the waistband if his pants, and there were so many of them now, four or five surrounding him. Martín was sure he was saying something, pleading, maybe, or maybe he was just moving his lips without sound, because this didn't happen, the man pushing his hand down his pants didn't happen and the way he couldn't breathe didn’t happen and that overwhelming terror couldn’t be happening to him. 

The man was talking to him, and he couldn't make out any word but could guess the meaning and his legs felt weak, waves of pain from where the fist had connected, and it felt like the only thing supporting him was the man's hands right between his legs. He tried to breathe, but he was shaking and the air seemed almost solid, he couldn't think anymore and then-

-and _then_ the man pulled away, and Luciano was scolding his crew, loud and harsh and angrier than Martín had ever seen him.

He sagged against the mast and closed his eyes. He was strong and proud and he wouldn't break because of this. He wouldn’t.

Luciano held his face with both hands.

“Martín?”

He didn't answer. He was sure his voice would break.

“Martín, come on. Stop that, look at me. Tell me what happened.”

His voice was kind. He was doing it again, acting like this whole thing wasn't his fault, acting nice and sweet and Martín could feel his thumb caressing his lip, pulling it very lightly. Only then he noticed he had been biting it. 

His mouth tasted like blood.

Martín opened his eyes. The blind fear was subsiding, his brain was starting to work again, and he could feel the shame, the anger, the burning humiliation, and then he thought he should bite him, should spit on his face. Attack him too. 

He didn’t. He just stood there while, Luciano holding his face and caressing his cheek and his lips.

“What happened,” he said. His voice sounded strange, too soft, and parts of the words were too low to be heard but what the fuck, “I'll tell you, what happened is that you have a grudge against me and you're keeping me here with this bunch of savages and you have no honor and you're sick, you're a sick bastard and you can't do this to me, and, you're just proving me right, that you're not- civilized, that you can't, you can't do this to me-”

It went on. Luciano just listened. Still holding his face, and then caressing his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. He was close enough to kiss him if he wanted, close enough to hear every whispered word.

“Nothing happened,” he said, when Martín went silent, “See? You're fine.”

“Let me go. Please.”

Luciano smiled.

“That won’t happen again, don’t worry. I’ll let them know you’re off-limits.”

He patted him lightly, and Martín could see he was going to leave, so he said, trying to sound less desperate:

“Look, I need to- they keep making me drink and- just a minute, that's all I ask, you know I'm not armed and you know I won't do anything crazy so you can do that, just to show-

“-that I'm civilized?”

There was that edge again. Martín closed his eyes for a few seconds, and he though why must I pay so much for everything I say, it's not _fair_ , but then Luciano relented:

“Fine. I’ll untie you, but if you try anything, my protection is revoked, and I’ll let them have their fun. Understood?”

Martín nodded. 

He didn’t quite believe that. Luciano never sounded properly threatening, it always felt like he wasn’t sure of his own words. It didn’t matter. Martín was unarmed and drastically outnumbered, and there was nothing he could do about that.

And, deep down, he wasn’t sure he could just ignore the threat. Luciano clearly wasn't the boy he had known anymore.

And Luciano was still thinking, trying to decide if it was a good idea or not. The fact that he could change his mind almost made Martín scream, it was enough to drive him crazy and he wished he could shake Luciano or-

“Just a few minutes, and then you're back. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“No fuss or anything, I'm not letting you go, got it?”

“Yes. I got it. Could you hurry?”

It sounded firm enough. Good. Considering that a few seconds ago he wasn't sure he'd be able to say anything without breaking down, he was doing well. Luciano said something to one of his men, and Martín almost asked why he didn't do it himself, but he didn't want to risk anything. It was almost painful to believe, because every time Luciano looked at him he thought he would laugh, that it would turn out to be a joke, but then he felt the rope twisting and pulling and then his hands were free.

He straightened his back, and took one step forward, away from the mast. He rubbed his wrists carefully, moving slowly, feeling the blood rushing to the tip of his fingers like a thousand needles. He could see the burns of the ropes around his wrists, clear like bracelets, but the cuts were small, little drops of blood that he could easily rub away.

He must have swayed a little because then Luciano grabbed his elbow to steady him, and Martín pulled away as if the touch had burned.

Luciano smiled, and crossed his arms.

He wasn't even holding a weapon, Martín thought. Talk about confidence. He looked down at his hands again, trying to regain his balance. He couldn't fall. That was the end of it, the bottom line, he couldn't fall. And he wouldn't. So he moved very slowly, willing his legs to work, and see, he could do this, walk. Easy. Even after all that.

His hand went to his cravat to undo the knot, and then Luciano held his wrist.

Martín hadn't even seen him move.

“Did I say you could take it off?”

“... you're joking.”

“I'll let you know if I joke. I mean it. You can go and do your business and that's it.”

Martín let Luciano lower his arm. He could feel the tension starting again, the blow to his pride that almost overshadowed the heat of the cravat and the coat, and then he saw Luciano's eyes and the hardness there and something clicked.

“Next time,” he said, “I'll let you help me.”

He wanted to say more, wanted to say that Luciano shouldn't punish him for refusing his touches because he shouldn't be touching him anyway, he had just tied him to a fucking mast so what the hell was wrong with him, but he didn't even had to. He could see the flash of anger in his eyes, light and fast and suddenly hidden, and that was new, Luciano had never been good at hiding anything. Every feeling and thought showed on his face, he was all wide eyes and pouty lips and sometimes if he got too angry he looked on the verge of tears even if anger never made him cry. Other things, yes. But not anger.

That was then. This was now. And now Luciano grabbed his arm, and said:

“How kind of you. Let's go then.”

“You don't-”

“I said you could go, I never said you'd have privacy.”

“Luciano!”

“Look, I wouldn't put it past you to throw yourself overboard, and then you'll get your stupid self killed and I'll lose my entertainment and we don't want that, do we? Trust me, you have nothing I want to see. Now let's go.”

He pulled him carelessly, making Martín stumble after him. But then he let go, and crossed his arms again and he didn't watch it, he made a point of looking away until Martín was finished. He didn't grab his arm again afterwards, just walked him back to the weather deck and then Martín started to drag his feet.

He didn't want to. But his hands hurt and there was a dull throbbing sort of pain all over his back and shoulders and the idea of getting back in that same position was getting more and more unbearable. His legs were tired. And he hated being restrained. And now he could feel the wind but he knew it wouldn't make any difference if he couldn't move, if he had to stand there under the sun again so he stopped.

Luciano stopped too.

Martín looked at him. He tried to say something that wouldn't be pleading or begging, something to make him see reason because see, he hadn't tried to kill him or himself or anyone, so he could be left alone and they could lock him up somewhere that he wouldn't even mind, but now he couldn't get a single word out. His breath was coming faster and Luciano was looking at him with a blank face and then Martín never decided to attack him, it just happened, because he couldn't let himself be led like that.

He didn't even get to touch him. Suddenly there were three pairs of hands holding his arms and he was writhing and shouting and insulting them and the Empire and everyone and Luciano was talking fast, but not to him. He wasn't even looking at him.

So they twisted his arms around his back just like they had done all those centuries ago this morning, and he had to stop moving or he would break his own bones, and they made him walk but didn't drag him and didn't do anything that could hurt him and for a few seconds it was so alike that Martín wasn't sure if everything up to now had been a dream or if time was moving in circles and then he remembered the boots, he had them before and now he didn't and the floor was warm and a little slippery, or maybe it was the stockings, so this was something different, and it was like dreaming and being awake at the same time. They held him against the mast, and then he looked at Luciano.

“Let me take off the coat.”

Luciano raised one eyebrow. He still looked blank.

“That's all I'm asking, let me take it off.”

He wasn't pleading. He wasn't even sure he was speaking, that it wasn't a dream, it felt like the words were rolling out of his mouth just to melt in the sun, that his lips weren't moving to form them.

Luciano shrugged. It was so strange, so out of place, that it took Martín a few moments to understand he was relenting.

They didn't let him go, and he had to stand and wait as they moved his arms and got the coat off. The relief was so intense, more than the water and the wind and almost as much as being untied and he closed his eyes to let it sink, how light he suddenly felt, and it wouldn't last because the sun was still there but right now this was the best moment of his life.

He tried to stop thinking, to be somewhere else. To focus on this feeling as they twisted his arms back around the mast and tied his hands again, just as tight as they had before.


	4. Chapter 4

“Can he sit?” Luciano asked. Martín felt someone pulling at the ropes and answering in Portuguese, which was weird, Luciano had asked in Spanish and they could very obviously understand it, so what the hell? Was this all part of the dream? Maybe no one was speaking any language and this was all in his head.

His legs were tired. Sweet of him to let him sit.

They went away, back to whatever universe they occupied when Luciano was close like this, and he touched Martin’s cravat.

“How about this? I can untie it for you, if you want.”

He was going to pull it tighter. Martín knew it. Luciano used to have trouble with the knots, and Martín had fixed it for him more than once. Now he’d do it on purpose to see him gasp and to make him struggle – but it used to be hard for him, before, and even when he got the hang of it, everyone knew it was because he practiced for hours, not because he was used to being fancy, so it didn't count. So they laughed anyway.

Martín had not laughed. They had gone somewhere so fancy, so glittery and full of light, where it was so desperately important to look proper and well dressed. This he remembered. He just didn’t know if it had been the night of the Opera or the dinner with Lord Kirkland, and it was important to remember, because one had been magical and the other had ruined everything. 

Luciano had been nervous. Wearing the wrong clothes got him mocked merciless, and wearing the right ones made everyone say he was trying too hard. It was a game he couldn’t win, and Martín kindly explained that he was the wrong kind of person, that was all. The first time he said it, Luciano sulked for days and looked like a kicked puppy and that ruined Martín's mood but didn't make him feel guilty, because Luciano was always saying stupid things to him too, but no, wait, that was wrong. That had been before.

When they went to the Opera, Luciano had acted... well, crazy. One second he was his happy carefree bubbly self, and then he suddenly panicked and decided no one liked him and he should go back home _now_. All the way across the Atlantic. 

Martín had invited him in the first place, so it was his mission to make him calm the fuck down. He vaguely remembered trying to shake him to snap him out of it, because he wasn't good at this comforting thing, and he remembered Luciano hiding his face on his shoulder as if this had meant to be a hug all along. 

He remembered holding him. Wondering what he’d say if anyone walked in. Touching his face. Raising his chin to check his cravat – so it had been that night, too, then? How often had he done that anyway? He remembered Luciano’s skin under his fingers. His own heart speeding up.

He remembered that.

Luciano was touching his face. Here, now. Martín blinked, trying to make the rest of it go away. He could return later, back to this room of mirrors and gold and crystal, and a carpet that he couldn't feel because he would have his shoes on. But not now. Now there was the ship and he had to listen because Luciano was saying something, and he had his hand around his neck.

“Fine,” he was saying. Frowning. He shouldn't, it made his eyebrows look too dark, too thick. More than usual, anyway. “Fine, if you won't talk to me, I'll go away.”

“I can talk.”

Luciano pulled the cravat. It wasn't too tight, just enough for Martín to feel it.

“Then say something. You're ignoring me. And I'm being so nice to you.”

“Are you? I didn't-”

Luciano pulled it a little tighter. Martín gasped, but he forced the words out.

“-didn't notice it.”

“Of course you didn't. Do you know I could kill you and no one would hold it against me? I wouldn't even have to explain it.”

“I know that,” Martín said, “That's what they expect. Even your backwater Empire, if they still want anything to do with you-”

“Exactly, so you should be a little more careful.”

“That's not how you should treat people, that's not how civilized nations act. What do you do with your prisoners when you're done with them? Do you eat them?”

Luciano pulled it tighter. Now it was starting to hurt.

“As if your Republic is any different. The only reason you don't know that, if you really don't, is because you barely have a navy, your army is pathetic, and they have to rely on people like you.”

He was so close now. Martín wondered what his mouth would taste like. How it would feel to kiss it. His lips seemed meant to be kissed.   
He tried to smile.

“At least I have my honor. At least I know what's right. At least I'm not torturing someone who can't fight back because of a stupid schooldays grudge.”

Then he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak and he tried not to panic because Luciano wouldn't go too far, he was sure of it, but he would make it worse if he struggled but he couldn't _breathe_ -

“Can't fight back? You had your chance! We fought and I won and now you're mine and of course it looks dishonorable to you, because you think the only honorable thing to do is to let you win, right? Then you can believe you're a real man, and a great war hero. You're not even hurt, all you have to show is sunburn and I bet you compatriots will be impressed when I throw you back there like the piece of shit you are.”

“You disgust me,” Martín wheezed, “You're – you have no _idea_ – they'll know what you're doing, because everyone knows what you _are_ -”

Luciano got it. Martín saw it in his eyes. He got it and it made him furious and he pulled the cloth tighter, and tighter and tighter, and now Martín could see little spots of black and purple in front of his eyes. He opened his mouth, but no air came, and this was such a dumb way to die but then no, it was a war and he was a prisoner so it made sense and the killer being an old almost-friend with perfect lips made it more fitting, and then Luciano let go and Martín collapsed against the mast, coughing and trying to take the air in huge, gasped breaths.

His legs gave in. Sliding down hurt his hands and it tore the shirt at his back and the sleeves, and Luciano held his arms but instead of forcing him to stand, he tried to slow down the fall, and then when Martín sat on the floor he was straddling his legs and holding his face and this couldn’t be real. It could not.

“I'm sorry,” Luciano was saying, “I'm sorry, I didn't- why do you always do that, can't you just shut up? I don't want to kill you, just- you don't know what you're talking about, I don't- I _don't_ want to kill you-”

Martín tried to control the coughing, tried to calm his racing heart, letting the words wash over him. Luciano was so close, his voice dropping more and more until it was nothing but a whisper, and their mouths were almost touching, he could feel Luciano's breath tickling his lips like a feather, and his hands holding his face. Then he pulled away, giving him the space to breathe, and Martín felt the loss like a blow, as if he was being cheated of something he had earned.

Luciano untied his cravat, and then he held his chin again, raising it to look at his neck. He ran his finger down his throat. Martín could feel the faint pressure of his nail, or maybe not even that, maybe he could just guess it, as Luciano traced the line of his throat, and then suddenly pressed his lips against his cheek.

“Say something. Please? Anything?”

Martín just breathed, as deeply as he could, as Luciano kissed his face and then the line of his jaw and then the corner of his lips, warm all over, his mouth almost over his.

“Please.”

“You just told me to be quiet,” Martín said. It came out all wrong, raspy and wheezy and forced, and not nearly as challenging as he would have liked.

“Martín-”

“It's not- hard,” he said, trying again, “Just don't kill me. Easy.”

They could work their way up from this, he thought.

Luciano kissed his forehead. Then he got up.

“Don't do anything stupid,” he said. “You just need to sit there. _That_ should be easy. I'll come back later.”

He looked sad. 

The crazy idiot had the nerve to look sad. Not angry, not remorseful, just down-turned mouth and sad eyes. Martín watched him go. He tried to think about all this, but it didn't work, he couldn't focus. Not thoughts and no meaning to anything. Fuck him. Fuck this. Fuck this heat, and Luciano's eyes, and his beautiful mouth.

This was so, so wrong. The way he held his face, his finger on his lips, that was bad enough. The kiss was unthinkable.   
And yet.

They had only kissed once, back then. Before.

It had been the Opera night. Martín wasn't paying attention, but he was sure Luciano didn’t like it either, so he pretended to enjoy it to make a point. Some aria or other filled the great hall and he thought about how right it had felt, holding him like that – or being held like that - and how awful, and wrong and terrifying that was. And every time Luciano moved he startled, thinking he was going to touch his arm or his shoulder and everyone would see. But it was always just Luciano being an uncouth idiot and looking around to find people he knew or to stretch his neck, or just fidgeting because he couldn't figure out what was going on stage, and he didn’t know you weren’t supposed to.

Waiting for a touch that wasn't coming made Martín snappish, so when Luciano tried to look around one more time he grabbed the nape of his neck and made him sit straight, and Luciano glared at him and sank on his seat and sulked for whole third act.

The sun made it real, as if he could see that stage here, the seats spreading all over the deck, the curtains, the orchestra, the singers at some point far in the sea. Everything sparkled bright enough to burn his eyes, he had to close them against the sting. The colors were startling, too, the dark hair of the crew and the white fabric of their shirts, tanned skin in thirty different shades, red and black and brown from the pants and boots. Then they were singing and the sound was almost tangible, one of the many strings of golden light filling the deck.

This was wrong. It wasn't how light worked. This was the heat talking and he should hide from it, find a cover, find a shade, but he had gotten rid of the coat and there was nothing he could do now, unless he asked them to strip him.

The idea distracted him. He wondered if they would. A piece of clothing every day, until they reached Montevideo. It would be amusing. He wondered what that would feel like, if he’d get used to the humiliation. Maybe he should suggest it, Luciano would love the idea.

Years, years without even thinking about him, and now this. It was nice to know that Luciano still wanted to kiss him, even after all that. The search seemed to have happened a long time ago, but he remembered the feeling, Luciano's hands reaching between his legs, how hot it felt even over fabric, and he remembered thrusting into his hand and arching his back and moaning and Luciano's mouth covering his, teeth and tongue and lips, he would taste like sun and coffee and alcohol. He was always drinking coffee, back then, whenever he could. Made him think of home, he used to say.

Martín blinked. This hadn't happened. Had it? So he was going crazy. He should keep that in mind. He should also stop looking at the sun, because it was making his eyes hurt. But when he did, if he could take the burn for a few seconds, he would look away and everything would be black, and then he could rest his eyes from the bright colors and the way the wood seemed to glitter.

He looked up, and tried to out-stare the sun.


	5. Chapter 5

When Luciano came back, he had changed the hat for a red bandanna.

And he was shirtless. Martín took a few seconds to get used to this. Apparently, the sun didn't bother him. His skin glistened with sweat, but that seemed to be it. He was walking around, checking the ropes and the sails and adding his own twist to the songs his crew was singing, saying something that made them laugh and Martín was vaguely curious about it, because Luciano used to be very creative for things like this. He could make music out of anything, from dry leaves to wooden combs, and come up with lyrics for every melody.

Most of those described acts completely impossible unless the people involved had extra limbs. The crew looked at him, and they were probably a bunch of murderers but there was genuine affection there, and respect, and that was the strange part. They listened to him. Martín knew Luciano was charming, but leadership was new. Getting, and keeping, the respect of a crew this large was new.

He wouldn't have guessed.

Also, Luciano was undermining his own authority, doing this. Dressing like that, singing like that. Laughing like that. He sounded like a child, open and daft, when he laughed. Like an idiot.

So Martín watched him. Luciano came to the mast and looked up, and if he had his arms free Martín could have touched his legs, could have squeezed his calf to see how he would react, and then Luciano would have looked down and smiled.

Of course, if he had his arms free he would have no reason to be sitting here, but he didn't want to think about it. Luciano was completely distracted, doing whatever he was doing with the mast and he was way too close now, so much that Martín had to lean his head or he’d end up pressing his face against Luciano's leg. He almost asked if he was in the way.

Luciano rested his hand on his hair.

“You're lucky,” he said, “You get to rest and just hang in there.”

“If you want my help,” Martín said, “Just ask.”

He wondered if his voice sounded weird or if it was just him. Luciano grinned, and pulled lightly at his hair. Then he squatted, and looked at his face.

“They say you're being boring.”

Right. The pull of anger broke through the daze, enough for him to say:

“Tell them to make up their minds, then. You want me to just sit here or to do what, dance for you? You're their pet monkey, not me.”

“Not dance, I can do that myself, but they want to fuck your mouth. Maybe you'd enjoy that?”

Martín was stunned.

“Jesus Christ, Luciano, do I deserve this? I was quiet, I'm not even complaining, what else do you want?”

“You have no idea,” he said, and then, to Martín's surprise, he laughed, “But you're right, you don't. I keep forgetting you don’t listen to the shit you say. Still, don't call me that again, or I'll hurt you.”

What, monkey?, he wanted to say, but that mix of shock and horror and resentment was back and he couldn't go back to the trance he was in before and couldn't bring himself to voice the word. It wasn't worth it.

“Come on, don't be like that,” Luciano said. He was still smiling. Tilting his head like a bird, a little sparrow with huge dark eyes full of mirth, “Oh _fine_ , I'm sorry. It's not even true, they didn't ask me that,” he smiled wider, “But I bet they would love the idea.”

“Luciano-”

“Wouldn't you?”

Oh God. He was crazy. He was completely insane.

“Wouldn't you love to suck me off?” Luciano lowered his voice. He rested his hand over Martín's knee, his fingers dancing down his leg, “I bet you would.”

“You try that and I'll bite it off.”

“I can make sure you don't.”

He waited.

Martín glared at him. And then there was that strange feeling again, that something in the world was shifting, taking a different shape, giving a new meaning to his words, and he said:

“You don't mean that.”

“Don't I?”

“You don't. You're just saying it. But you don't mean it and you won't do it. Not to me. You couldn’t stand it.”

Luciano glared back for a moment. Then he shrugged.

“Fair enough, I won't. Unless you annoy me too much.”

Not even then, Martín thought. But he had won this round, so he didn't say anything. Luciano gave his thigh a friendly squeeze.

“Now, I'll do something you won't like.”

“I'm getting used to it,” Martín said. He didn't know if he sounded nasty or just defeated. Luciano leaned over, and kissed his forehead.

“Good for you. Brace yourself.”

He untied his bandanna. It was a dark red thing that looked striking against his black hair, and Martín thought he should have added a skull or crossed femurs or something, and then Luciano looked at him and he guessed what he was planning to do.

“No.”

“Sorry,” he said, “But I'm not asking.”

“No. I don't want it. No, Luciano-”

“Come on, be still.”

He tried to turn away, or lower his head or anything to avoid it but Luciano knelt beside him and didn't even have to hold him, just pressed the cloth against his eyes and tied the knot behind his head. Easy as that, and there was no way to stop it. Martín whimpered.

“Don't leave me like this. I can't, I won't- tell me what you want. I’ll do it.”

It wasn’t begging. It _wasn’t_.

“Nonsense. I’m just taking care of your pretty eyes.”

“No, I was quiet, I didn’t provoke you, you came here to talk to me, please. I'm asking you, please-”

“Don't be stupid, Martín, I just said I wouldn't do that. You'll go blind from the sun if I don't do this. I won't let it happen to you. I told you, the only thing you'll have to show for this will be sunburns. Your face will be all red and that's all.”

“Please. Please. I don't want this. I don't like this. Please, I'll suck you off if you want me to, please-”

He held his face with both hands again, and raised his face and Martín could see nothing, couldn't even tell if he was looking at the sun or Luciano's face and now he couldn't breathe, his heart was racing, and then Luciano suddenly kissed him full on the open mouth.

Martín kissed him back. It was the last chance to make him change his mind, and his whole world now was Luciano's hands on his face and his mouth covering his. 

And then Luciano pulled away:

“You'll thank me later.”

He wasn't going to cry. Or beg him. Again. He had, hadn't he? He couldn't. Pride was all he had.

He sensed Luciano getting up, and all around him the world went on like before, the singing, the sun burning his face and his neck and the sweat on his back and the dull pain in his shoulders and it filled him like something thick and bitter and he wanted to scream, or break down and sob and curse but he couldn't, he wouldn't, so Martín bit his lip as hard as he could to hold back the scream building up. He pressed his head on his knees. 

This position put more strain on his shoulders, but he didn't want to raise his face now, or ever again, ever, not with that thing on, so he didn't, he tried to focus on the sunlight on the back of his neck. Not the light. Just the warmth, first like a blanket and then like fire, a flame dancing over his skin.

He could pretend it was night. The darkness was real, he wasn't seeing anything because there was nothing to see, it was dark. It was dark, it was dark, it was dark.

He repeated it to himself until the mantra lost all meaning, and became just empty sounds. The only real thing in the world.


	6. Chapter 6

The first time they ever talked, Luciano had stormed out of the room. Martín followed, because he was interesting and different and laughed too loud all the time, and his eyes were always so sweet. 

Their friendship had never been easy. He didn't know what would make him defensive and he knew Luciano hated when people mentioned the color of his skin and he shouldn't, he knew that, but he couldn't help it. It's just that - he had heard the stories, of course – and he wanted to tell Luciano that they could talk about it, and laugh and mock the people spreading the rumors, that Luciano could rant and he would listen. And point out all the flaws in his logic, but in a friendly way. But Luciano waited and Martín couldn't bring himself to say all that, because, well.

What would he say?

He _had_ heard the stories. And there was nothing... wrong with them, if he thought about it, but still. They all knew slavery existed, it had been legal in his own nation until last year. It still was, in the Brazilian Empire. Luciano himself probably had slaves back home. But it was still wrong and immoral and he still had the debates echoing in his mind, the, the wrongness of it. 

And. Well.

Where the hell else would Luciano get his dark skin from? And it wasn't as if Martín could ask him if his mother had been a slave and, in that case was Luciano one too, or- how did that even work? Was that the reason why he had ran away from the class, why he never talked when they discussed it? He couldn't. And if he did, if Martín figured out a way to ask without giving insult, if he could get Luciano to confide in him, then... that would mean he would be on his side. He would be the person Luciano could trust, the one he could talk to.

He could have done that right then, on that first day of so many beginnings. It would be the start of his... special status.

He hadn’t. It wasn't worth it. Not when they would have to return to the class and everyone would look at Luciano and whisper, and wonder, and remember stories. What would they say about Martín, if he did that?

So he told him to stop being so dramatic, stop taking it personally, to get over it and suck it up, and for a second Luciano's eyes burned and Martín knew he was about to be punched in the face. And that his classmate was thinking about what a nasty bastard he was, but that wasn't important. Not now. Not yet.

Someone touched his forehead, forcing him to raise his head.

“Just a little,” Luciano said, pressing the canteen to his lips. Martín kept his eyes closed. This was important. He didn’t remember why, he just knew he couldn't open then. He drank, this time slowly, trying to focus on the taste of alcohol, and Luciano kissed his mouth when he finished, and then he went away. Had to. Or maybe he was still here somewhere, looking, but Martín wouldn't see anything because it was too dark.

He wasn't going to think about that.

Luciano was always looking at him. 

Martín knew he should be annoyed, because Luciano was trouble, even without the thing with his mother. His father worked in commerce – something about cotton or coffee or whatever, beneath him in every possible way. But Luciano had been so cheerful, back then. When he wasn't running from classes. He was always smiling, talking to people. And practicing the French verbs until he could pass as only really bad. Eager to please.

Not like this.

Martín had apologized, later. After that dinner. Sort of.

Well. He had implied he was sorry.

He could almost see it, and it felt like falling inside himself. Like following a dark tunnel. It was comforting to be sitting like this, to have the mast behind his back, because then he could be sure he wasn't upside down. He was standing at the door. He hadn't been invited in, but he didn't care. Luciano was packing, he didn't know why, but Luciano was packing and wasn't saying anything and he was furious. Martín could see that. Too angry to talk to him. You don't have to leave, he said. In a few weeks everyone will forget this and things will be back to normal. Stop being so dramatic.

Luciano turned.

He didn't say much. Martín remembered that, because he had hoped he would. Luciano had looked so broken, so furious and so defeated. You didn't have to, he said. You didn't. We talked so much, and so often, and for so long. You could have said something before. You didn't have to do that.

Martín hadn't seen him again.

Later, someone said Lord Kirkland decided he wouldn't sponsor him anymore, and Martín felt stupid for forgetting that. And someone - one of the many friends Luciano had made - said it was Martín's fault, that he should pay for the rest of his education. All things considered.

So much for friendship, Martín thought, but he forced a smile and said that it was a good idea, he could tell his parents he had bought himself a personal slave. They laughed, and thought he was a nasty fucking bastard, but never brought that up again.

Martín had laughed along, of course. But he was glad Luciano hadn't been there to hear that.

“Hey, are you awake?”

He raised his face. He felt Luciano's hand resting on his hair again, and tried to guess what he wanted, if he would leave or give him water or kiss him. Luciano liked to kiss him. Martín knew it, because Luciano was always doing it. Kissing his face. And his lips. He shouldn't. Not after all this time. Not after all that. And Martín shouldn't let him, after all this.

“What, you won't talk to me again?”

He didn't answer. He was here, the gray walls from the dormitory fading away with the wood cross on the wall and Luciano's books and the bed and the suitcase and the soft whisper from the other students. It was dark. He tried to blink and it felt weird, his eyelashes getting caught on cloth.  


Luciano pulled the bandanna from his eyes, and Martín blinked slowly, to get used to it. The sky was a very dark shade of blue, almost silvery gray on the line of the horizon. There were stars, now.

It was beautiful. Really, really beautiful. So relaxing, he hadn't noticed how much that knot behind his skull was bothering him, and how tight it was, and how easier it was to breathe without it, and how beautiful the sky was. Some distant part of him thought it was probably going to rain soon, it was that kind of heat, damp and thick, but it was so beautiful and perfect and right now he didn't care.

Luciano touched his face:

“You're not crying, are you?”

“Fuck you,” he whispered. He meant it. But Luciano just smiled, pleased, and then kissed him again and see? He was always doing that. So he liked it.

The sky was so gorgeous. Luciano was by his side, really close, sort of combing his hair, pulling the strands from his forehead. Martín sighed:

“What happens now?”

“Nothing. My crew will have dinner. I'll go back to steering. You'll keep doing whatever you were doing. What did you expect?”

Something different, Martín thought. But he was too tired now. He turned to Luciano. Who was still caressing his hair.

“Will I get it?”

“Get what?”

“Dinner. Do I get to eat?”

Luciano grinned at him:

“That's not on my plans, no. I'm not that civilized. By the way, I hope you're grateful for the free drinks, because tomorrow you won't have so much.”

Martín looked away. He wasn't surprised. Or even that upset. Luciano wouldn't let him die. He could wait.

“My back hurts.”

“Really? I'm sorry about that.”

“Let me go.”

Luciano laughed. He held his chin, made Martín turn back to him.

“That's one thing I love about you, you're so stubborn. You never give up.”

He got up on his knees, and then straddled Martín's legs, sitting on his thighs. Martín didn't think much. He raised his face in the clearest offer, and Luciano kissed his mouth again. It was slow and sweet, a kiss to be savored, like the kiss he had imagined back then. Luciano's hands on his shoulders, as if he didn't want to touch anything else, wanted to focus on his lips, his tongue inside Martín's mouth and Martín tried to forget where he was, sucking at his lower lip and biting softly and he thought he should take the chance, bite him for real, but before he could make up his mind Luciano pulled away.

So he just asked:

“What else?”

“Hm?”

“What else do you love about me?”

“Oh. That.” he laughed. It sounded like before, silly and bubbly, and Martín blinked a little faster, so he wouldn't forget where he was. So he wouldn't see a small café in Paris and a bright smile and-

“Well. There's the fact that you're beautiful.” Luciano pinched his cheek, “Of course, now you look like a lobster, but I like it.”

“Do you remember that day?”

“Which one? I remember many days.”

“We left early. Because you couldn't stand still and someone told us to leave. Remember?”

Luciano's smile faltered, just for a second. Then it was back.

“That play? When you spent the whole evening hoping no one would see us? That one?”

Don't do that, Martín thought. Please. Don't be like that.

“You kissed me anyway.”

“So I did.”

“Why?”

Luciano sat back.

Martín thought he was going to leave. He would have held him, if he could, he'd have grabbed his arms and kissed him again, but he couldn't, and he wasn't going to beg.

Not begging. That sounded so empty. Like a lesson he had memorized, stripped of every meaning.

“Martín, do you know we're at war?”

“Just-”

“No, listen, you keep bringing that up as if this, me arresting you, was something personal. We’re at war. We fought. You lost and now you're my prisoner.”

“So this is normal. Nothing personal. Do you always kiss your prisoners?”

“You know, that's a good idea. Maybe I should. I could build a reputation with that. You can spread the rumor and-”

“Why did you kiss me?”

“... fine. I have much to do anyway.”

“No, not then, now, why are you doing this now? You know it's personal, we both do. I just want to know. Why did you even joined this war?”

“Well, sorry, but I have no idea,” now Luciano was upset. His eyes were serious and he pressed his lips and it looked like he was pouting. “I wasn't planning to join the war. I just reacted to the pirates-”

“-privateers.”

“And my father joined the army and I had to do something. I knew you were there, 'tho. And no, not because I asked,” he said, before Martín could say anything, “I talk to a lot of people, and for some reason they thought your name was relevant, and I was sure you'd get yourself killed. Or maybe we'd kill each other. I wondered what would happen if you tried to take my ship. What you'd do to me. I wondered if I'd kill you, and if I would know it when I did.”

His voice was changing. Martín could hear the anger creeping in, the bitterness.

“Then I thought, he won't recognize me. He probably didn't think of me all this time, so who cares? But you wanted it. To kiss me, I mean, back then. You wanted it as much as I did. And I spent so many years assuming I had read you all wrong, but then I thought, what if I didn’t? What if I'm right, what if he really wanted me, but was just too much of a coward to own up to it? And then what if we kill each other, wouldn't that be perfect? Wouldn't I love to kill him?”

He leaned over, his hand on Martín's hair. It was getting colder now, and for a crazy second Martín thought it was because of him, that Luciano's mood was affecting the sea and the wind. He tried to shake his head, but then Luciano held his hair a little tighter.

“And I thought, what are the odds? You were going to die before I could even talk to you. I used to think you'd come back, because you wanted me, I thought you'd see it someday and come back to find me, but now with all this you were going to die because you're too dumb to pick your battles and I wouldn't even get to know about it.” He pulled away. “And then you didn't. you’re here, and you’re alive, and I have the upper hand. I feel cheated, Martín. So that's why I kissed you.”

“I just- look, it's not- I never said-”

Luciano looked at him. For a moment he was so anxious, the same naked eagerness in his eyes, waiting, like that afternoon when he glared through tears and asked how he would feel with all the grilling questions and the nasty implications and his eyes were reddening and it had been so cold, back then, the European winter was just kicking in and everything around them looked gray and his hair looked messy from the wind and no. The wind was now. He didn’t get it. It was summer. He had spent the whole day under the blazing sun. How could it be cold?

“So,” he said, weakly, “You missed me. That's- you said it. You thought about me.”

“... that's not what I said.”

“Yes it is. You were worried. You-”

“Shut up, Martín.”

He did. He didn't know what to say anyway, how to explain that, to Martín, he had always been Luciano-from-Paris and it was impossible to imagine him anywhere else. Even now, after a battle and a day being subjected to his whims, it was hard to picture him fighting. Or killing.

Or dying.

“I knew nothing bad would happen to you,” Martín whispered. “I knew you'd be safe.”

“How?”

The question sounded honest. And challenging. Martín tried to guess what they were talking about, what exactly Luciano wanted to know, but he was too tired, and his head hurt too much. He tried to straighten up his back, but he couldn't move with Luciano sitting on his legs like that.

“No, never mind,” Luciano said, “I know how. Just like you knew I'd be alright after what you did. You were so sure that you didn't need to check, right? All those times, actually, you trusted me so much, right? This is stupid. Just say you don't care.”

“Care? What are you-”

Luciano touched his hair again. Running his fingers softly through the strands. It hurt, because his hair was dirty and damp with sweat and Luciano didn't stop, he forced his fingers through the tangles and he looked so focused, and Martín wondered if he had blacked out for a moment, if he had missed something. Maybe days had passed already, and that was why Luciano was silent, because he had nothing left to say, no unanswered questions, and it was possible, because now the sky behind him looked dark and Martín remembered the stars and now he couldn't see them. He remembered them. And the heat, and now it was getting colder, he could feel it, and there was something important he had to say. To Luciano. Who was combing his hair with his fingers, and thinking, and he had to say something.

He just didn't know what.

“You weren't my friend,” Luciano whispered, “You only talked to me when there was no one else. You despised me. But you did talk to me, even when I didn't talk to you first, so I thought. What if.” He smiled. It was wrong and bitter and it didn't look like one of his smiles. “What if he likes me? And this is just because he's too afraid, or because of- something that it's not me being too… unlikable. I thought. Did you know I wanted you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course,” he said. He pinched his cheek lightly, almost tenderly, then went back to his hair, “I thought you did. I was obvious, wasn't I?”

“You were.”

Why was everything so dark? And cold?

“So I thought, he knows it, and he still talks to me, so maybe he doesn't mind? And then you invited me to the Opera and you let me kiss you-”

“You didn't ask,” Martín said. “You never asked what I wanted.”

Luciano twisted his hair on his fingers. Smiled at him.

Then he slammed his head against the mast.

Martín wasn't expecting that. The pain exploded on the back of his head like fire, and then Luciano covered his mouth with his hand.

“Don't scream. They'll come to watch.”

Martín nodded, eyes wide and a little frantic and Luciano was still holding his hair like that and what was going on?

“I'm tired, Martín, I'm really tired. Either you believe I forced you or you don't, and if you do, then what's the point of all this? Of talking to you? Or, for that matter, of trying to keep you safe when you don't deserve it, do you know this is the first good thing that I ever had, these people, this ship, do you know I'm putting my position on the line by not letting them kill you, do you know just how close I am to giving up? You are my fucking prisoner, I could let them have their fun and then throw you in the sea, or I could fuck you myself until we reach Montevideo or I could torture you for information, even if you probably don't know shit about anything important, and do you know how much I would enjoy that?”

“I'm- I don't-”

“No, shut up and listen and pay attention, you think I'm doing this because I know you, you think the only reason you're not being treated like a prince is because of what you did to me, and it didn’t cross your stupid mind that if I didn't know you, you'd be dead. That's the only reason you're alive right now. Because I wasn't in the mood to kill you. So remember that. I didn't ask to kiss you, yes, but you let me do it and you wanted it, I know it, you know it, so- I get it, you didn't like it, you thought it was disgusting and wrong enough to fuck me over and stab me in the back and now-”

“No, listen, that's not how I-”

He backhanded him this time. It wasn't meant to humiliate him, it was meant to hurt, and then it was suddenly very easy to see him fighting, for real, to see him breaking someone's neck. The game had changed, Martín thought.

“Tell me you didn't care. Tell me that's why you never bothered to look for me, to-”  


“I tried! The next day I went after you, I tried to talk but you wouldn't listen,” he knew he was babbling, but now it was panic talking, his head was pounding and his cheek stung and it was suddenly so cold and dark and he had to say it before Luciano could hit him again, “And what was I supposed to say, look, sorry for that let's pretend it never happened, was that what you wanted to hear? We were friends and I liked- it wasn't possible, I had my- you know it wouldn't have worked, you didn't have any sense and it wasn't even about wanting to kiss you or not, you know, it was about survival! You don't know what could have happened-”

“You mean, like having to leave? Because now no one wants to be near you? And having people thinking you're a disgusting piece of shit and having your friends pretending they don't know you, as if you were planning to ask them anything anyway, because you never did but they still think you will and then saying things behind your back and- is that the kind of things you mean? That could have happened to you? If they had found out you wanted me to fuck you? Or do you mean things like dishonoring your family? Because I have no idea. This honor thing, is it important? Because I don't know, Martín, is it?”

“Please, just- please, Luciano.”

Don't do this to me. You said you wouldn't.

Luciano let go of his hair. He looked away, then sighed. It sounded forced and a lot like he was trying to breath out the anger, to get control, and that was a relief, unless he wanted to keep his head cold to think of a better punishment, but Martín didn't know and he couldn't guess and then Luciano got up.

“Well. That was enlightening. We should talk more.”

Everything hurt. His head and his face, from the blows and from the sun, and his eyes were burning, he couldn't feel his arms anymore and his back and maybe there was blood on his neck, he felt miserable and he wanted to cry and he wanted to be anywhere but here and Luciano was looking down at him, waiting for something, and then they heard the sound of distant thunder.

“It's going to rain,” Martín whispered.

“Looks like it.”

“You'll leave me here.”

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes.

He only opened when the first drop of water hit, and by then he was alone. Everything had a vague, dreamlike quality. The rain started very light, almost pleasant, after the heat from before. The noise was nice too, soft music played on the water and the wood of the ship. 

Martín raised his face, and closed his eyes again. He tried to imagine the blood running down his back with the raindrops, the water cooling the sting on his cheek. Cleansing him from something so dirty, so bitter, that nothing else would wash away.


	7. Chapter 7

Maybe Luciano would do something if the rain became a real storm. Not let him go, but... take him inside his cabin, keep him safe. Something. After all, he had spent the day giving him water even if Martín didn't want to drink it, blindfolded him to protect his eyes, stopped his crew from touching him. Even if he hadn't refrained from doing that himself. From kissing him. 

Martín tried to remember how many times Luciano had done it. Just once, he thought. But no, that wasn’t true anymore. That had been the right answer until yesterday. One kiss.

If that.

He had been furious and embarrassed. Luciano, on the other hand, had cheered up as soon as they left the Opera, as if he didn't even know that tomorrow everyone would be talking about how they couldn't behave in public. And, more importantly, how Martín shouldn't associate with the likes of him because people would stop inviting him if he insisted in dragging that idiot along, which he didn't, thank you, it had been just this time and never again, and he was trying to calm down enough to say all this with some coherence, because right now he just wanted to shake him. Luciano was trying to hide a smile. At his expenses. As always. So the ride back to school was silent and awkward and full of unspoken threats and as soon as they got inside the dormitory Martín started to rant and Luciano gave him one of his kicked puppy looks.

Come on, he said, you can't be that angry. And Martín told him he was going back to his room and Luciano should go back to his and never talk to him again.

That was how it started.

No. No it wasn't, it had started a long time ago, it had started the first time Martín touched his arm and Luciano took that as permission to touch him whenever he wanted. Way before, even. It started with the very first look. 

This was how it started to end.

Luciano held his waist. And then he hugged him, and Martín asked if he was crazy, because they were fighting, for fuck's sake, and tried to get him off. Luciano held tighter, arms around him, pressing his cheek to his shoulder.

So Martín sort of maybe patted his back. Just so he would get a hint and let go. And then Luciano looked up and beamed at him and Martín got a little distracted by his lips. Again. He should get over this, eventually, because it was starting to get on his nerves, how beautiful and different Luciano's face was, with the huge black eyes and the thick eyelashes almost like a girl's and Martín was touching his hair, then, without ever quite deciding to do so. It felt so wrong, so strange and wrong, wrong, that was all he could think, he shouldn't, he couldn't, but Luciano's hair was soft and so much fun to touch, full of curls and little ringlets and Martín wondered if he ever combed it. Luciano started to play with his too, one arm still holding his waist, keeping him close, and the other on the back of his neck, and now he couldn't get away even if he wanted to, because then he would have to let go. And make Luciano let go of him. And he couldn't do that. Not when Luciano was looking at him like that, because even if Martín was used to being admired, no one had ever looked at him this way.

So he let Luciano hold him. And pull his head down. And press his lips against his own, barely touching, and that felt like fire leaping down his spine and nothing like he had imagined, it shouldn't have been like this, it shouldn't have been this sweet, and when Luciano pulled away Martín opened his eyes, and he hadn't even noticed he had them closed.

I'm sorry, Luciano said. He was smiling, his eyes alight with happiness. Sorry about the play. Are you still mad at me?

He could have said yes. He could have pushed him away, he could have explained, as politely as he could, that this couldn't happen ever again, and certainly not here at school. He could have said he didn't like it, hated the way Luciano could make him forget everything with one touch. He could have walked away. Martín could have done anything that wasn't just stand there blushing like an idiot hoping he would kiss him again.

Someone kicked his leg. 

He opened his eyes, startled, and it was raining and he couldn't figure out what they wanted, but then the man jumped over his legs, glaring before walking away, and he got it. He bent his knees against his chest. Unfair, he wasn't in their way on purpose. But fine. And the kick hadn't been too hard, but it hurt a little and he wanted to rub the sting away but couldn't, so he tried to stop thinking about it, and it wasn't even all that hard. Things seemed so light, now. Every idea floating around him, like a painting in the air.

Luciano-from-Paris has kissed him once, and then left his room with a shy, soft smile on his lips. He couldn't know Martín had spent the night regretting it and wishing it hadn't happened.

Luciano had kissed him a few times yesterday, his face and his mouth. He had hit him too, but maybe he knew what he was doing. Controlled strength. Enough to hurt a little, never more than he could take. Maybe. Like now, it was raining, and he had left him here, but he’d come if it got too bad, maybe? And then, he would make him starve but wouldn't let him die, and he'd made him drink water, he worried about his eyes so maybe there was still something.

Maybe he could ask him. Just go and say the words. Is there anything left between us? I’m sorry I ruined your life. Are you still mad at me?

The ship seemed strange now, otherworldly. He wished he could rub his eyes, and stretch his arms, just a little, touch the back of his head to see the damage, because now it hurt when he tried to rest against the mast. He could see the shadows of the men moving around him, like ghosts walking in the rain. His hair was plastered to his face, and he wanted to take off the wet stockings and it was such a dumb thing to worry about. It was cold, and he gritted his teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. Maybe they could give him his coat back, just until the rain stopped.

It hadn't even been that bad, he thought. _Had_ thought, back then. Martín rested his head on his knees, but then his shoulders hurt too much and he had to look up. This was bad. He had done this earlier today, so why couldn't he do it again? He tried to rest against the mast, very carefully, so it wouldn't hurt. He wished Luciano hadn't done that. Hit him like that.

It hadn't been that bad. Only it had.

The rain stopped. Eventually. He was hungry, but he could ignore it. He could take this. The stars were back, the Southern Cross bright and clear, and he tried to remember how it looked from the window back home. Tried to place where his bed would be. It looks like this, Luciano had said, pointing at the Parisian sky and tracing it, and Martín smiled because he knew that, but it had never occurred to him to be homesick over stars. Mine is just opposite, he had said. And the fact that their bedrooms had faced each other, one in Buenos Aires, one some place he couldn’t even pronounce in the Brazilian hinterland, had amused both of them.

The sky went darker, then a lighter shade of blue. Martín stretched his legs again, and no one complained. He couldn't decide if he had fallen asleep or not, because the night had ended fast, so he must have, but he'd been watching the stars all the time and listening to the waves, so maybe he had been awake all along. And he was tired. He couldn't fully open his eyes anymore – no, he could, if he wanted to. Martín was sure of it. 

He was just too tired to try.

The sky went gray. Hateful color. Then the sun was rising, and there was pink, orange and red, and then indigo and light blue, and Martín wondered if he would be blindfolded again.

He could hear the noise from the crew. It was strange, like hearing it from inside a glass. They were talking and laughing, someone patted his head when they passed. God. Not this again, please.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the sun was higher in the sky, and it was even hotter than yesterday. Lighter, too. How long had he been asleep? Hours? Three days? There was nothing to prove he hadn't slept for a whole week. Luciano should come talk to him. Luciano was real. Not like this ghost ship with ghostly people, who only existed when they were right in front of him.

That distracted him. Maybe that's why they had tied him like that, so he couldn't look around, so he wouldn't notice nothing here was real. Not the crew, or the ship, not even the ocean. And it got dark when Luciano was angry, light when he was happy, and the sun was only there because he was like that, made of heat and warmth and fire and light.

His eyes hurt. 

Maybe he could sleep again. Until they reached whatever place Luciano was planning to leave him at. Or forever. He wished he could slide down, and lay down a little, but that would break his arms. Maybe Luciano would let him out again, or tie him in a different way. If he asked.

He wasn't going to ask. Ever.

“Hey, you need water.”

He opened his eyes. Just a little, so the light wouldn't hurt. His eyelids were so heavy. He had never noticed how much work it took to open them. Why hadn't he ever noticed that?

“'m not thirsty,” he said.

Luciano sighed. Martín tried again:

“I'm not- just- not thirsty.”

There. He closed his eyes again.

Then Luciano brought the bottle to his lips anyway, and he couldn't hold back a groan.

“I'm sorry, but it's too hot, so. You should be thirsty. Come on, drink it.”

It wasn't like he could refuse it, so he tried to swallow, but after a few seconds he was too tired to keep trying and the water slid down his chin, dripping on his chest. He was so soaked in sweat that it wouldn’t even be noticeable.

“Martín-”

Later, he said. I'll drink it later. But no sound came out.

“... are you alright?”

My head hurts, he thought. He was almost sure he had said it. Moved his lips, anyway. But Luciano seemed to get it, because then he knelt by his side and made him tilt his head, one hand on his forehead, the other pressing his head down. Martín didn't resist. He wanted to know if there was blood.

“No,” Luciano said, when he finally let him raise his head. See, he had asked. He wasn't going crazy. “But you'll have a nice bump later. Will you believe me if I say I'm sorry?”

“You said it yesterday.”

It was almost a whisper, but clear enough for Luciano to get. Good. Now he could go back to thinking about nothing.

“You meant that?”

… oh come on.

“That I forced you?” Luciano insisted, “To kiss me?”

“I never said that.”

“Yeah. I'm sorry, I'm being stupid. Are you sure you're not thirsty?”

“Yes.” Then he added, “Thank you.”

He heard Luciano getting up.

He hadn't kissed him, this time. Or touched his hair or his face or anything but that quick checking and this was wrong, and strange, and maybe he was really angry. So maybe it would rain again.

And Martín wasn’t lying, he had never said that. Not last night for sure, that was Luciano being an idiot. But before, that wasn't exactly what he meant because he didn't go around claiming people had kissed him by force, because Luciano wasn't exactly intimidating or anything, because he hadn't tied people to masts yet and hadn't punched them and threatened to break their necks so Martín didn’t know he had it in him. All he had said – had wanted to say – was that a kiss like that could never happen again. 

It's just that he had to say he hadn't wanted it in the first place.

Lord Kirkland was as blue blood as anyone could ever dream to be. Class and money and a title, and a family line older than their nations. He was sponsoring Luciano's education God only knew why, but that granted Luciano access to places that would have been forbidden otherwise, sometimes even more than the other students, and it was right the next day. The dinner. Monsieur Bonnefoy smiled at them and told them Arthur enjoyed a good conversation and, failing that, sending people home in tears, so they should be prepared to discuss more politics than they had ever cared about. By then Martín had managed to convince himself that last night had been a dream, and he was trying not to look too much at Luciano, because it made him go red and then everyone would notice it.

Luciano wasn't getting it. As usual. He was surprised and a little hurt when Martín cut him off to say they should get ready, and the whole day was full of little incidents like that because Luciano was clingy and needy and couldn't take a hint. Martín tried to imagine introducing him to his family. How his parents would react. He was the son of a merchant and a… well. Obviously not one of them.

And he had kissed him.

From the moment they entered the dining room to the moment they left hours later, everything had been a blur. A swirling cloud of sentences and looks and gestures and silver and crystal and soft music, Lord Kirkland's eyes and silence and whispers, and it was like everything had happened at the same time.

Which couldn't be true.

Arthur Kirkland greeted his guests, and shook their hands, at some point. Martín never knew what to say when he was near him, so he didn't try, because he’d babble and look stupid. Luciano, who didn't mind looking stupid, did, and Martín couldn't hear their conversation, just see that it was happening.

Luciano was smiling. Arthur Kirkland wasn't.

At some point, the dinner started, and they were close, because Luciano was sitting by Arthur's side, probably so people wouldn't take him for one of the servants. Martín was there because it was his right, because it was his place to be here, to be invited to houses like this, to belong.

At some point, Arthur looked at them, stern and almost fatherly, to Martín, anyway, who always thought fathers should act like that, and asked what was all the talk he’d been hearing about the Opera last night, and then the silence engulfed them like something solid, even if it was probably everyone minding their own business and pretending nothing was happening. Martín felt the blush going up his neck, warming his cheeks.

Luciano grinned, and asked what he had heard, and then Arthur scolded them for not behaving properly and maybe it went too far, or maybe it didn't. But it sounded so threatening. Like he was this close to kicking them out, like something that could ruin their reputation, and Luciano was smiling and treating it like a big adventure, like something people did all the time, and all Martín could think of was how that wasn't his fault. And what Arthur would say if he knew about the rest. The hug. And the kiss.

By then, he could barely breath.

At some point Arthur told them he expected better behavior from now on. Luciano nodded meekly and then, when Arthur looked away, he winked at Martín, and that made him blush harder.

At some point Martín smiled. And his smile made Luciano frown, and at some point Martín opened his mouth. And said, still smiling as if he didn't care, as if the burn of shame and anger in his cheeks was something from the lights, that yes, Arthur was right, it had been embarrassing, and he hoped it would be forgotten by the time he went there again, and then, he said, smiling at Luciano, maybe he wouldn't invite him next time, because he clearly didn't like it.

So it wasn't much. It wasn't serious, nothing that couldn't be forgiven – eventually. Luciano looked at him, sort of not exactly smiling, but almost, hesitant, trying to guess what he was trying to do. So Martín smiled back, wide and sharp, and then Arthur cleared his throat and changed the subject with a pointed look at both of them, and Luciano stared at his plate, and Martín asked if he needed help to figure out which fork he should use.

No, Luciano said, but thank you, and Martín could see the doubt in his eyes, so he told him he was getting the wrong one, and then Luciano stopped and let go and Martín laughed, and said, sorry, my mistake, and looked at Arthur and said, you should see him at school, it's painful to watch. We really love him. So amusing.

Arthur was frowning. But it didn't matter, because he wasn't part of this anymore, Luciano was. And everyone needed to know that Martín wasn't like him. That he hadn't been raised by a former slave or whatever she was, that he knew the right fork. That he was different.

I'm sure you do, Luciano said. It didn't sound challenging. Or like he was talking about Martín at all. So he probably meant their classmates, because his voice still sounded unsure, as if he couldn't decide if Martín was making a joke he couldn't get or what was going on. Martín just said, next time someone will take you, because I did my part already. And then the servants were filling their plates, and he playfully pointed out that Luciano had spilled something on the tablecloth and maybe he should try to forget the forks and just eat with his hands and then Luciano looked up at him and asked why he was doing this.

His voice was just a little shaky, and now people were listening and then it was too late to stop, because no one reacted like that, no man would, and if Luciano had told him to shut up or to take it outside or had ignored him and turned to talk to someone else, it would have ended right there. But he looked like a wounded puppy and anyone could see there was something going on and Martín had to get himself out of this, because people would wonder, were wondering already. Even Arthur was watching, still scowling, but watching.

Martín forced a smile that felt more like he was twisting his lip and said, my God, Luciano, maybe I should have sent you a break-up letter? You don't think your parents will want to talk to mine, do you?

This is not why I invited you, Arthur said, very softly. It wasn't important. Martín looked down to the silverware, and started to eat like nothing had happened, and Luciano whispered, I'm sorry, I didn't know you cared so much about Opera. It sounded hollow, and Martín said, you wouldn't know, it's not your type of entertainment, and then Luciano said, not yours either, you left with me, and he was whispering and looking at his plate and asking for it and everyone was listening, so Martín smiled, and said, it's not like I had any choice, after what you did? And Luciano said, you weren't complaining last night, and Martín knew his face was burning and he could hear the shock of everyone who listened and he said, complain about what, taking you back to school? It was the only thing I could do, since you can't hire a coach yourself, and Luciano said, fine, then, you're richer than me, everyone got that? Can we move on? And Arthur asked him to keep his voice low and then Martín said don't worry, I don't mind, but, Luciano, really. _Really._

And he didn't talk like that, they both knew it. Cutting the sentences like that. He tended to go on and on or be snappish and curt when he was angry, but this sounded more aristocratic, somehow, maybe because Arthur himself did pauses when he talked and he was as classy as one could be, so Martín said it loud and clearly, Luciano, really. Don't be like that. You know I find your crush on me absolutely endearing, but surely you didn't expect me to return it?

Luciano looked at him, too stunned to react.

And then he laughed. Because Martín had never talked like that, because it sounded memorized, it sounded cheap and forced and both knew it, and his shoulders shook as he hid his face in his hands and tried to regain his composure, and he looked at Arthur and said I'm sorry, I need to go now, I can't- I'm so sorry, I should-

And then he got up and the table was silent, and now Martín was feeling sick, and the next day M. Bonnefoy wasn't saying much of anything, he just sighed and told them Arthur couldn't afford another scandal, and then he thought about it and said, well, he can. But he won't.

So Luciano was packing. So Martín tried to argue with his back – don’t be like this, don’t be dramatic, talk to him, in a few weeks…

He was wrong, of course, but back then he didn’t know it, or didn’t want to admit it, and it wasn’t important anyway. So Luciano looked at him and said you didn't have to do it. You could have told me. You could have waited. I was happy, you invited me to watch that shit and we came back together and I was so happy, I thought I had finally impressed you enough, I was so, so happy, why did you do this to me? You didn't have to.

And Martín waited, and listened, because he hadn't seen this coming and couldn't say that, couldn't explain that he just wanted to push him away, not completely fuck him over.

So he said, why did you kiss me?

Luciano stared. He was hurt and defeated and on the verge of breaking down, and now he had nothing to lose anymore. They both thought of that at the same time.

So Martín left.

The rumors subsided, at some point. After a while. The whole thing became a joke, everyone said Luciano didn't belong there anyway. Martín finished his education, and then came back to South America to fight for the United Provinces.

He never thought about that. Ever. Except for snippets of conversation, a few words he couldn't place, the gray sky of Paris. Deep brown eyes, a look so fond he didn’t find in anyone else. The sound of laughter, the touch. And one kiss that was barely that.


	8. Chapter 8

Luciano had kissed him yesterday, many times. Real kisses. But yesterday had been a lifetime ago, and it was hard to remember how it had happened. Martín remembered how it felt. Remembered thinking about the taste, but that was childish and silly, because kisses didn’t taste like anything.

His head hurt. He wished he hadn't remembered all that- there was nothing he could do about it now. He tried to close his eyes again, but the pain was only getting stronger. It hadn't felt like that yesterday. He wished he could rub his temple or check for himself if he had a bump from the other night or not. And his eyes. Everything was so bright, his eyes were burning. He didn't want the blindfold again, but Luciano was right, Martín knew it, people could go blind from this and- but if Luciano wasn't doing anything about it, maybe it was because it wouldn't happen today, so there was no reason to worry.

His head was pounding.

Maybe it would rain again tonight. Maybe Luciano would kiss him. And forgive him one day. Maybe. He wanted to sleep, but not like this, he wanted to slide down and he couldn't, it would put too much strain on his arms and Martín knew that already but he really wanted to change, and the sun was right in front of him, and he couldn't figure out what it meant, because it was past noon, then, or not? He tried to remember from yesterday, but the blindfold had been so disorienting, and now he wasn't sure he had actually fallen asleep.

Not knowing was driving him crazy. Someone should come and tell him. And tell him how many days had passed, while they were at it. He pulled at the ropes, but nothing happened, just like all the times he had tried it before. He tried to stop, to calm down. He could do that. Had done it before, he was good at it, talking himself out of things, he could do it again. Now he was feeling nauseous. It was impossible, he hadn't eaten anything.

Martín held his breath. He couldn't throw up now, he'd die of shame. And they wouldn't let him change, wouldn't let him wash, and he would have to wait for the rain. Or for Luciano's mercy. But the nausea was taking over, filling his brain, making him dizzy and breathe, deep breaths, he thought, I can take this. It would be better if he didn't feel every sway of the ship, but he was used to this, had spent the better part of the last years at the sea, for fuck's sake, he could handle it.

He hadn't eaten anything. Why was this happening? Why was this happening to him, why couldn't he breathe? His heart was racing and he was breathing too fast, he knew it, he would throw up if he didn't quit that right now but he _couldn't_ , and then everything was upside down and he whimpered, struggling so hard against the ropes that they cut through his skin and Luciano grabbed his chin and raised his face and said I can't leave you alone for one fucking minute for fuck's sake and his eyes were wide with worry and even his touch felt different, and Martín tried to tell him to fuck off because this was all his fault and then he blacked out.

When he woke up, he was lying down on the deck, and Luciano was staring at his face. Now that was fast, he said, and Martín vaguely wondered if he was going to hit him.

He sounded like he wanted to.

“Wha- how long did I-”

“I don't know, five seconds? If I'd known you'd come around so soon I wouldn't have bothered to untie you. What happened this time? Did they look at you too much?”

Five seconds?

He tried to sit. Luciano didn't let him.

“Wait,” he said, his hand on Martín's chest, pressing him down, “Don't be more stupid than you have to be, right? Wait.”

So he did. He didn't want to get up anyway. The pain was a thousand burning needles all over his back, but he hadn't had a chance to stretch like this for hours, or centuries, or who knew, and he wasn't going to waste it.

Luciano was talking.

“Tell me, is this your first trip? What kind of soldier are you? I thought you were tough! I can't keep running here every time you throw a tantrum-”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah right, I just wish you'd get your-”

“No, Luciano. I'm sorry.”

Luciano stopped.

He was sort of crouching, sort of kneeling by his side, Martín couldn't decide, because now he could only see his face and the luminous sky behind him. And, overlaid like a new coat of paint, all the fear and disappointment and heartbreak of that night.

He tried to sit again. This time Luciano didn't react.

“I'm so sorry,” he said. He had to force the words out. He couldn't get control of his own body, and trying to sit was straining, he had to support himself on his arms and his hand was shaking, and he couldn't think of any way to explain it.

Luciano watched his struggle for a few seconds, and then sighed.

“Yes,” he said, “I bet you are.”

He wrapped his arm around Martín's shoulders, helping him sit, supporting most of his weight. Martín frowned. He didn't know what he had expected, but it hadn't been this.

“We should get you something to eat,” Luciano said, “And water.”

He touched his forehead, then his cheek with the back of his hand.

“I'm not-”

“You're sick, so shut up; I need to decide what to do with you.”

Oh.

“'m not sick.”

Luciano didn't answer. And Martín wasn't completely sure he wasn't, to be honest. The nausea had gone, but he felt weak and afraid of moving too much and risking it coming back. Even talking. He had apologized. Hadn't he?

Come on, Luciano said. He got up slowly, making Martín stand up too, his arm around his back, holding him under his armpit, and Martín, had to close his eyes again, tight, because this made the whole brig spin. I thought you were tough, Luciano had said- how _dares_ he.

“Martín?”

You just told me to shut up, he thought, make up your mind. But he couldn't say that, it was too long. Too complex.

“- 're you tying me up again?”

This was more important. He wished he could get the words out, so Luciano would understand the question, and he wished he could sound less pathetic and he wished Luciano would let go because he knew he could stand on his own, thank you very much. Maybe. He was almost sure.

Luciano paused.

Then he said:

“No, I'm taking you inside. Can't have you dying now just because you can't take the heat, can I?”

Martín tried to rub his face, to clear his head a little. And breathe. So- finally. _Finally_. His heart was speeding up again, just to think about it. He tried to see Luciano's eyes:

“So I'm not going back?”

“Look, just shut up and let me think, alright?”

_You_ just told me to say something, he thought, but fine, the relief was strong enough to overrule everything else, and he tried to control it, just in case Luciano changed his mind later. He wasn't sure what would happen now, and he wanted to lie down. He felt like he had been here for hours, leaning on him and that was impossible- it had to be, Luciano had things to do, right? Still, Martín tried to pull away just in case, and also because he didn't need Luciano and he could stand on his own, and then his legs gave in.

Then things happened very slowly, because he had the time to think about how weird that felt, like his body was made of water or sawdust and he thought about how much it would hurt when he slammed his head on the floor, and it happened very fast, because Luciano barely moved, he had one hand around his torso already and then the other arm was under his knees and then he was holding Martín against his chest.

The world spun around him, and Martín moaned, pain drumming in his head, and then he was whimpering and trying to hold back the sound and trying to understand what the hell had just happened.

“Stop that,” Luciano snapped, “Or I'll throw you in the sea.”

So he stopped. His head was hurting too much and struggling made it worse, so Martín let it rest on his shoulder. It wasn't like he could do anything else, his body refused to obey him. He couldn't even feel embarrassed about it – not much, anyway. This was Luciano's problem, if he wanted to act like that in front of his crew.

He had no idea how Luciano opened the cabin's door without dropping him on the floor, but he did, and then he did drop him, but on the bunk, and flexed his arms, swearing under his breath, and left without saying anything.

Martín looked around. The bunk against the wall, a desk, and a wardrobe. The walls were mostly empty, just a map showing Brazil's coastline and a wooden cross so familiar that for a second Martín was sure he was still in Paris.

Luciano came back. He sat by his side, and Martín had to force himself to avert his eyes from the cross to look at him. He was breaking a hardtack in tiny pieces, and- he remembered watching his fingers, back then, fast and agile, and his handwriting had been so weird, they used to say it was because he couldn't hold a pen, and he remembered Luciano was surprised to hear that, and after watching him for a while Martín decided that this was just stupid, because every movement flowed and it wasn't like his own handwriting was that perfect either. But it seemed easier to joke about his.

Now he couldn't imagine why.

Luciano took one piece and held it to Martín's lips. This was even more embarrassing than being carried here in front of everyone. And more intimate too. Martín opened his mouth, trying to ignore the way Luciano's fingers brushed against it. He wondered if Luciano had done that on purpose. And what he would do if Martín licked the crumbs from his fingers. If he would like it.

He was glad his face was already as red as it could get.

Luciano made him eat one or two of the things and then started to unbutton his shirt. That, somehow, seemed the most sensible thing he could do right now, so Martín didn't mind. He looked back at the cross and whispered.

“I remember that.”

He hadn't planned to whisper. But his voice didn't want to work right. And Luciano heard it, because he stopped and looked around, until he saw what Martín was looking at. Then he went back to his task.

“Can you raise your arm?”

It took him a while to understand that this was his reply, and by then Luciano had grabbed his wrists to do it himself. Martín hissed, and then tried to push him away, but Luciano held his other arm too:

“What's your problem now, don't you-”

Then he stopped. He softened his grip, staring at Martín's wrists.

“... ah. Well. If you didn't struggle so much, this wouldn't have happened.”

He held his hand instead, and Martín held his by instinct, and then he realized that it wasn't what Luciano had in mind at all, he was just trying to get that stupid shirt off, but then Luciano looked at him and gave a small, guarded smile.

He was sad again. Not angry anymore. Just sad. Come on, he said, and Martín couldn't think of any way to help him, so he just tried to relax, let Luciano move him how he wanted it. He got the sleeves off, then pulled it away, without even waiting for Martín to raise his body.

It was better like that, Martín wasn't sure he would have been able to do it. Too much effort. Luciano squeezed his hand lightly, and then let go.

“It's the same one,” Martín said, “Isn't it?”

“The same one what?”

“Cross. From the school. On the wall.”

He had watched Luciano go from the bed to the wardrobe, picking his clothes, his books, everything that had been his life in Paris, that day. The last thing had been that cross.

“Ah- yes, it is. It's not from the school, it's mine, but yes, it's the same. Why?”

“I didn't know you'd have to leave.”

Luciano looked down and started opening his pants. Martín wanted to ask if he had heard, and what he was thinking, and why he wasn't saying anything because this wasn't like him- like the person he had been. And it felt strange, everything, the mattress and the wall and Luciano undressing him like that, and he had thought it would happen on his bedroom. It was bigger. And the bed was better, too. He would come and they would lock the door and Luciano would smile, for real, and Martín would hold his face and then-

“You don't believe me.”

Luciano didn't answer. Again. He patted Martín's hip, very lightly, and Martín felt another twinge of embarrassment. But he managed to raise his hips for two seconds, enough for Luciano to pull his pants down his legs. He placed them on the chair, and then pulled off Martín's stockings. That wasn't how he had imagined it. It hadn't been so silent, and his head shouldn't be pounding, and the lights wouldn't have been playing tricks on him

Because they were. He knew he was inside a cabin, but every time he looked at the ceiling it felt like he was looking at the sun again, strong enough to fill his vision with black spots. This was wrong, there was no way he could see the sun from here, but he could, and the blinding brightness and he wanted to rub his eyes, but his body was trying to fight the ropes that weren't there. So he opened his eyes as wide as he could, to convince himself that this was a wooden ceiling and not the sky and rubbed his wrists to show he could move his arms and his hands, but it didn't help, so he tried to sit. If he could get up and walk around he would feel free, and then his head would stop hurting and his eyes would stop burning and he would feel better.

Luciano put his hand on his chest, holding him down:

“What now?”

“I'll be back, I just want to walk. I don't-”

“Hell no. You can't even stand, and anyway, what would my men think? Stay there.”

Oh. Right. He was completely naked, now. Luciano had just undressed him. Right.

“... why did you do this?”

“Not again, please, you're my prisoner, alright? Just get this-”

“No, I mean- this. Now. I want my clothes back.”

And his boots too, now he was thinking about it. He needed them. And the coat. But then it would be too hot, so Luciano could keep that.

“Later. Now rest. Why don't you try to sleep?”

“You're mad at me,” Martín said. And sad, too, and he hadn't imagined it like that at all. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it hadn't been this. He wasn't completely sure about all the details, and how it felt and how could it not hurt and many things like that, because he had never done this with other men before, but he had an idea of what was supposed to happen after the kiss, even back then, when that part seemed to be the most important, and he was pretty sure this heavy silence was all wrong, why wasn't Luciano kissing him? If he was undressing him like that?

“Just a little,” Luciano said. But now he was smiling. It didn't look real, but it softened his eyes and his mouth and that was something, “You ruined my revenge.”

Martín wondered if he should smile back. He blinked again, tightly, to make all the light go away. It was like Luciano had a halo right behind him. This couldn't be right.

“Did you get it?”

“Get what?”

“Your revenge? Are we even?”

There was another pause. Martín looked away. It felt like he was sinking, and it wasn’t fair, his head was hurting, this wasn't working, and it wasn't _fair_.

“Just rest,” Luciano said. “You should sleep, I think. And not sound so crazy.”

“I'm not crazy.”

“Right.”

The cold cloth came from nowhere, and it made Martín look at him again, surprised, but Luciano gave him another light smile and rubbed the fabric on his neck. It left a water line on his skin, and it felt nice, and chilly, and he sighed.

This made Luciano laugh.

“You're completely undeniably crazy. You must know that.”

“Are we?”

“What? Crazy?”

“Even. Are we even?”

“I don't know, Martín. Do you think we are?”

He leaned forward, over the edge of the bunk, and Martín realized that there was a basin or something there, full of water, and he didn't know how he'd missed that before. Luciano dipped the towel in it, folded it over. He was rubbing his chest now, then his shoulders, then his armpit, twisting the towel so the water would run down his skin.

“What else do you want?”

“Right now? You could shut up.”

“No, really,” he tried to glare at him. It would be better if he could ignore all those flashing lights, but he tried, “What do you want from me? I can't- 's not like I can undo anything, so- will you tie me up again?”

“No, I said I wouldn't do it, didn't I? But I'll gag you if you don't stop.”

“I wanted to talk to you, but I knew you wouldn't listen. I thought- I didn't want them to think. But I didn't mean that.”

“To ruin my life, you mean? I know you didn't.”

Martín blinked. Luciano touched his wrists, but then he paused, and held his hand instead. It felt strange, like it should have been something tender, only it wasn't, his fingers on his palm, pulling it almost to Luciano's chest. Martín could have touched him if he wanted to.

“Then what's your problem? If you know that. Why are you doing that? Why all this?”

Luciano paused _again_ , and he was doing that on purpose, he had to. To drive him crazy. Now he was rubbing that piece of cloth on his arm, and Martín wanted to touch his cheek, to see how it would feel. Not his skin, that would be like... like skin, soft and warm from the sun outside. But how it would feel to touch him. What he would feel doing it.

“You're right,” Luciano said. He lowered his arm, and then held his other hand, “It's so pointless, isn't it? But you are my prisoner. I had to do something.”

Martín thought about that. He couldn't make sense of it, couldn't find any meaning in those words, so he pulled his hand away:

“Fuck you, Luciano, why can't you- what's your game now? What do you want me to say? And don't say you want me to shut up, because you don't, if I do you'll ask things, why are you doing this to me?”

“Looks like you're feeling better already.”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

He looked away. And didn't turn back, even when Luciano touched his arm again. Now he was rubbing his chest. It felt nice, like he could feel his skin cooling down. It didn't last much, because his neck stung from the sun and Luciano had started there, but the contact with the cloth felt nice. And he was being careful. So why? How could he do that and be so- so dense-

“I should be asking this,” Luciano said. “You- fine then. You didn't think because it wasn't important to you. And you couldn't imagine what would happen to me, and- not how I would feel, because that was never important, but how much I needed to stay there. And how much I needed to be, not respected, or accepted or anything, but, I don't know, not too- not what you made of me. You didn't care. Why should you? It wasn't your business. You needed to feel safe, and you sacrificed me without a second thought and you never cared. I know all that, Martín, it's just that I was so sure. You talked to me, and you- but I told you all this. It doesn't matter. So, I owe you an apology, right? For making assumptions.”

His voice had that hard note underneath the words, and Martín could see the calm facade cracking, and good, because that was too strange, it didn't make any sense, even less than everything he had said from the first talk yesterday until now.

“Luciano-”

“I'm sorry, I don't want to talk to you. This is not what I wanted to say. I don't think I was asking much, back then. Am I really that unlikable? That's what I want to know. I waited years to ask you. Why couldn't you like me? I loved you. Why couldn't you love me back? Or say you didn't? I thought I deserved at least that. I thought we were friends. I was so, so fucking sure.”

“We were,” Martín said. Luciano was still talking, but he couldn't wait, it would take him forever to finish. He could tell- Luciano had years of bitterness to rub in his face and Martín wasn't sure he wouldn't pass out again, because his head was pounding and it was hard to make sense of what he was saying, so he had to say it now, “We were friends, I wanted you back then, so much, and I was always thinking about it, you wouldn't leave me alone and I couldn't leave you either, I tried, but then you looked at me and I couldn't, so- I had to make you go away.”

“Make me go away?” Luciano stopped with the towel and stared at him, like he had to struggle to make sense of what he was hearing too, “And destroy every chance I had?”

“No, shut up, listen to me, I told you I didn't know, I never thought that would happen, I thought you'd be angry and then you'd stay away from me and just not kiss me anymore, and not make me want to kiss you, and I didn't know. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I wouldn't have done it if I had known. I was afraid and I was a coward and I didn’t know.”

He wanted to say it again, say it differently so Luciano would get it, but the idiot was looking down and for a moment he was Luciano-from-Paris all over again, unsure and wanting to believe.

Then he said:

“So this means I was right. That's good to know.”

“Fuck you, Luciano, fuck this, you don't want an apology, do you? Or an explanation, you just want to torture me. So fuck you. ”

“This isn't torture.”

“You kept me tied to a fucking mast for the whole day, and you didn't give me any food and-”

“It isn't torture,” he said. His voice was very soft now, “Believe me.”

“I know you can do worse, I'm sure of that, I-”

“Yes, I could, and I should, and you're lucky I'm not doing it, because-”

“You love me!”

Martín tried to sit. Talking to him like this, lying down and looking up, was making him feel weak, and Luciano's voice held a million promises of a lot of pain in the near future and he had to make him see.

“You love me,” he said again, “You know that, you were worried about me, so you couldn't-”

“I just told you, Martín, I-”

“I know you can do it, it's a war, and you shouldn't, you're sweet, you were, and nice, you were always so easy to love, but I know, you just- you wouldn't do it to me. Because you love me.”

His arms hurt, but he forced them to support him until he could sit, and Luciano just watched as he struggled, eyes hard and wounded.

“You know,” Luciano said, “I think you're fine now. I think I worried too much. I think I should get you back to the mast.”

He doesn't mean that, Martín thought. He was sitting now, and he was completely naked, and every part of his body was hurting and his hands were shaking, and thinking about it made him feel queasy, but he was right, he knew that, Luciano had spent the day worrying about him and had tried to keep him safe, not comfortable, but safe, because he didn't want anything bad happening, because he loved him. He knew that.

“It was torture. Not as bad as you could do, but it was. You tied me. You blindfolded me. I can't- please.”

“That's nothing. It doesn't even hurt.”

“You said you wouldn't. I asked, and you said you wouldn't,” he held Luciano's face, and it felt strange, because then he couldn't support himself and he thought he would fall, but he was sitting, so it wasn't possible, and he shouldn't do this because Luciano was threatening him, but he had to, had to make him listen. Luciano didn't pull away, he just looked at him with eyes so dark and hurt and angry and scared, and waited, as if there was a specific set of words Martín could say to make everything right, a magic key that would fix everything. He wanted to find it, but the panic was creeping in again because he didn't know, and Luciano was hurt and then nothing would be enough, he could tie up him again and keep him like that forever and it wouldn’t heal him and his wrists were burning and he couldn't. Not again.

“You promised. I didn't mean it. I never meant to hurt you, and I wouldn't have, I swear, so-please, Luciano-”

“Oh God. I won't, I'm just saying it's not that bad when you think of all the-”

Martín kissed him.

It was terrible. He pressed his lips against Luciano's mouth hard enough to bruise, and then he couldn't breathe so he had to pull away but he didn't want to, and he couldn't sit straight anymore and he was falling against him, his arms around Luciano's shoulders, and he wanted to scream because that was not how it was supposed to go and his head wouldn't stop hurting and he wanted to cry, because Luciano just. Wouldn't. Get it.

“Please, I love you. Please. Don't do this to me.”

“I won't,” Luciano said, “Just _stop_ that.”

He put his arms around him, supporting him, and his skin was scorching hot, his arms felt like ropes made of fire. Luciano held his shoulders, then made him lie back.

Martín didn't resist. He closed his eyes. Then he felt the wet towel on his face. Over his eyelids. His forehead. On his neck again, then his chest. Cold water. Then Luciano rested his hands on his thighs, and Martín spread his legs for him.

He wasn't thinking anymore. Even breathing seemed to hurt, like he was going to have a fit of cough right now, and then he would pass out and never wake up again. Luciano was rubbing the inside of his thighs, now, and that felt- nice, and it was good to have that without the burning embarrassment from yesterday.

“You don't have to do this,” Luciano whispered. “Say these things. God. I'm not- I know I forced you to say it, but you don't have to. I'm sorry.”

Martín didn't say anything. He could hear now- fear. And the question he wasn't making, ringing in the silence.

Luciano leaned forward, to dip the towel again. Their bodies weren't touching, but Martín could feel his warmth anyway. It had always been like that, he thought. He could sense Luciano entering a room. He could feel his eyes on the back of his head, he could hear his voice in a crowd. He could always find him. 

He touched his shoulder. Luciano looked at him.

“I wouldn't,” Martín said, “You can't force me to say it.”

Luciano looked at him. He was so stupid, Martín thought, so blind, and so beautiful. Martín had to struggle to raise his arm, and brush his fingers on Luciano's face, and then touch his hair, and he was probably pulling it, because his arm hurt and his fingers grasped Luciano's curls. “You can't force me. To say anything. You-”

He shouldn't be so tired. This was all wrong. He had to say it.

“-can't _make_ me. I just love you.”

So, he wouldn't be able to explain it, but Luciano was so close, he wasn't even complaining about Martín grabbing his hair, and Martín could see his face as he worked that up, as he got it, as he tried to decide if he would believe it or not, and then Luciano buried his face on the juncture between his shoulder and his neck. It hurt. That part of his skin had spent hours in the sun without any fabric to hide it. And he was heavy, and it made it hard to breathe and Martín could feel strands of his hair over his lips as he turned to him.

He wouldn’t have traded this for anything.

Luciano raised his face and kissed his lips. His kiss was better, soft, and tender and gentle and warm, and Martín didn't know why his kisses were so good and then Luciano pulled away and smiled at him. It was weak, and trembling, but it was a smile.

“You're a fucked-up son of a bitch, you know?”

So are you, Martín thought. But Luciano went back to rubbing his thigh, and that felt so nice, and he didn't say anything.

“So,” Luciano said, “How are you feeling? Where does it hurt?”

“... everywhere?”

He wasn't sure he had heard right. Or if Luciano meant that. Maybe he was being crazy again. Nicer, but crazy. He was working on his legs now, rubbing the wet cloth around his calf, holding his knee. Martín wondered if he didn't mind seeing that- seeing him- like that. Or if he enjoyed it.

“Where?”

Luciano touched his knee, then made him bend it a little, so he could... actually, Martín wasn't sure why.

“... don't know. My head.” He tried to focus. That, and he felt nauseous, and dizzy, but that wasn't pain, so, “The sun.”

“The sun hurts?”

Martín scowled at him. Luciano smiled, and then did something weird, he pressed his forehead on Martín's raised knee, and laughed. His laughter sounded broken, and not at all like his regular laughter.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “I'm sorry, how do you do this? I shouldn't be feeling guilty. You deserved it. Lord knows how much you deserved it. And you'll live, I'm sure, so why- how do you do this?”

“I'm not doing anything.”

“Then stop. How does the sun hurt? I need to know, so I can do something about it.”

“... you're _mocking_ me.”

Luciano kissed his knee, sort of almost hugging his leg, shutting his eyes for a second, then said:

“I'm not. You mean sunburn, right? Where?”

“My face,” Martín mumbled. Also, you hit me twice, but he didn't say that. It had happened a lifetime ago, and he didn't have to bring it up. Luciano nodded. He got something from the floor.

“You won't like this,” he said, “But it will be worth it, I promise.”

Martín tensed. He remembered last time Luciano had said that, and he knew it couldn't be anything too bad, but still, and Luciano was pouring something all over the towel, and it smelt like-

“Vinegar?”

“You'll smell better,” Luciano said. And pressed the cloth to his face.

The sting made Martín hiss, and bite his lip tight, and then Luciano made it worse by rubbing it all over his face so everything would sting, the bastard, but then a few seconds later – when he got the fucking towel away from his face - he did feel better. Luciano put it on his neck too, down to his collarbone, and it made sense, he had to apply it to the places where the sun had hit but Martín almost wished he wouldn't, because that was hurting, but then it got better too.

So.

He sighed. It sounded a little trembling, but it had worked, somehow.

“It smells,” he said.

“Yes.”

“No- I mean- I-”

He closed his eyes, tight, and took a deep breath, but that didn't help much, and Luciano must have read his mind because then Martín felt his fingers on his lip again, with another tiny piece of the hardtack. He tried to eat it slowly, to fight back the nausea, and by then the smell of vinegar was already fading.

“I missed you,” Luciano said. It sounded very soft. Martín heard him breaking another piece of the biscuit. “I don’t know why. I hated you so much. You can’t imagine. But I still missed talking to you.”

“Teasing me,” Martín said. Luciano rested his fingers over his lips, rubbing it lightly. It felt strange, now that he was fully touching it, because his mouth felt dry and probably full of little cuts and marks from his own bites, and because of the sun, and he almost worried about that, but Luciano had kissed him a few times, so he knew it.

He could kiss him again. Martín was feeling better now, so he wouldn't throw up over him. And then he wished he hadn't thought about it, because it made him feel queasy again.

“More?”

“Please,” he said.

Luciano obliged him.

“I didn't tease you,” he said. “We talked a lot, back then. You were the only one who cared. You were always asking things. I liked that.”

“No you didn't. It made you furious.”

Luciano looked genuinely surprised. He thought about it, and then shrugged, getting back the other towel:

“You were weird, and I was defensive. Sometimes I thought you wanted to insult me, but you talked to me, so I thought... maybe you just wanted to know? Most of your questions were absurd.”

“I wanted to know.”

Luciano nodded. Now Martín wasn't completely sure what they were talking about, but Luciano said he had missed him. That was important.

“I missed you too.”

“No you didn't.”

“I did.”

“You didn't, but it doesn't matter.” He smiled, and Martín wanted to explain that he had missed that, but then Luciano went on, “I won't keep you here.”

Martín frowned. Luciano looked down, went back to rubbing his leg, and Martín tried to think about that, but the words refused to make sense. He waited, as Luciano held his ankle for a second, then his calf. And rested his chin on his knee.

“I can't. You're my war prisoner. Our war prisoner. So, I can't just tell them to leave you alone and I can't not make them leave you alone. So, you must go. Or they'll… there's only so much they can take before they lose their trust in me. And I won’t have that. You already cost me too much.”

Martín just blinked.

“... you'll send me away?”

His voice sounded normal. Low, and raspy, but normal. And there was a dull kind of pain all over his head, and he could ignore it but it was there, and he was naked, spread wide open in front of him, but his voice sounded normal. He was proud of himself for it.

“I can't take you all the way back, and I can't drop you at your ports. But we're always meeting American and British ships and French too, and they can cross the blockade, so.”

Martín stared. He knew that, of course. It was part of the reason why he believed they would win this war- this war that seemed to be part of a different world now.

“So you'll just- I'm just going to-”

“They can take you. And, hey. They'll be happy to. Instead of being attacked by terrible pirates, that is, me, they'll just have to take a passenger that smells like salad. Sounds like a great deal, doesn't it? Considering?”

He was babbling. And he sounded nervous, and Martín couldn't think of anything to say, because it made sense. It made a lot of sense. And he was a little ashamed of himself because of how much sense it made, and Martín hadn't even considered how much he was risking to be kind, even the weird, harsh type of kindness he had shown. So.

“I don't smell like salad.”

“Yes you do, and I don't- I don't _want_ to. God, I don’t want to give you up.” 

He hid his face again, pressing his lips against Martín's knee.

“I'll find you later,” Martín said, “When the war is over. I'll go to Brazil, and I'll find you. Then we’ll talk, we’ll fix all this, I promise.”

He tried to touch his hair. He was still tired, and his wrists hurt when he raised his arm, but he ignored the sharp bite of pain and patted his Luciano's curls, without pulling it this time, if possible:

“I will. As soon as we win this thing, I'll find you.”

“We'll win,” Luciano said.

Then he kissed him.

Martín saw it coming. He saw it when Luciano raised his face and slid closer on the bunk and leaned over him, his arms resting on the mattress. The room had that strange light effect again, as if he were staring straight at the sun, so he closed his eyes and waited, and then Luciano's mouth covered his, and he hoped his lips didn't taste like vinegar.

Then he forgot about it because he could feel Luciano's tongue touching his and touching the inside of his mouth and he held his arms and his shoulders, trying to bring him closer and then there was no one else in the world. The only thing that mattered was this kiss, and Luciano's full lush lips between his, fucking finally, and clutching his hair and scratching his back because he wanted him here, had spent too long wanting it to let him go now, and then Luciano pulled away. He held his chin and kissed him again, this time softer, closed lips and all, and said:

“I'll hold you to that, then.”

He kissed him again. He didn't really believe it, Martín could tell. It was clear in his voice, in his eyes, in his face, in his kiss. Luciano was just giving up on all this, on him, on his revenge, but it didn't matter. He would prove it later.

Martín was sure of that.


	9. Epilogue

Next time he opened his eyes, Luciano made him sit, hugging his shoulders, holding his arms, touching his hair. 

Martín watched, a little confused, as Luciano helped him with the underwear, his shirt, as he knelt in front of him to put on the stockings. It was like being dressed by a servant, only not, because Luciano touched him more than he had to, letting his hand linger, holding his ankle, smoothing the stocking's fabric over his legs. And he was bad at it, he couldn't decide what to do first, where he should start, and Martín just followed his lead, getting up, sitting down, getting up again. He felt numb. It was a little like waking up, watching reality shatter the last threads of a dream. The war. The blockade. Foreign ships and national politics. It felt so distant.

Luciano wasn't looking at him. He had that air of sadness all around him, eyes downcast, pouting lips. Martín couldn’t think of anything to say. He leaned forward when Luciano was working on the buckles of his boots, to kiss his hair.

“I'll miss you,” Luciano said. “Hating you was easier.”

“I'll meet you there. Trust me.”

Luciano didn't answer. He helped him up. Helped him with the coat. Martín stood there, looking at him.

One long moment, then, both staring at each other. Then Luciano pulled him to a last kiss.

And that was that.

Later that day he grabbed his arm a little tighter than he had to, but didn't make him run, didn't drag him down the deck, didn't do anything that would actually hurt him.

Everything happened like a dream. The other captain – a cheerful blond man who seemed to know Luciano better than he should - took him in and promised to take him to Buenos Aires and he talked very fast, and Martín hadn't talked in English for a while and it took him a few seconds to understand the words, and then he was taken to a cabin.

And then it was over.

Martín lied down, not bothering with the clothes or the boots.

The first time he had seen Luciano, he was all bright and sunny. Wide eyes and questions in that fumbling French of his and all the wrong clothes and his smile, God, that fucking smile. 

Martín remembered looking around to see if the others had noticed it, or if he was the only one feeling the warmth of that smile. And later, when they were used to getting on each other's nerves, he had asked why Luciano kept talking to him, if he was always so annoyed, and Luciano had glared and said you know, I should be asking you the same question, why do you keep coming after me if I just embarrass you, it's not like you can't find someone else to bother, _is_ it, and Martín had said I don't know, it just happens. I think you're doing it on purpose.

And I don't think I have a choice. I think we're stuck together; I think it might be-

Martin closed his eyes. They had found each other in Paris. They had found each other in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. He would find him in Rio de Janeiro, or any place in the world, and this time they would fix everything and he would love him right, he knew it.

-it might be our destiny. He had said it, years ago, and it was. He would find him anywhere.


End file.
